


a body, clean and whole

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Adultery, Afterlife, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Limbo, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, C137cest, Canon Divergence - Star Mort: Rickturn of the Jerri, Character Death, Child Murder, Corpses, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Heaven, Heavy Angst, M/M, Missing Persons, Moving On, Multi, Murder, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tissue Warning, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Morty was fifteen when he was murdered on December 15, 2022. He’d died, not because of a reckless adventure with Rick, but due to the lack of an adventure that day. He’d died because he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.And Rick plans to avenge Morty.
Relationships: Beth Smith/Jerry Smith, Morty Smith/Original Male Character(s), Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith, that last tag isn’t consensual
Comments: 88
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fair warning, in case you haven’t read the tags for some reason, read them, because this story will be dark. it will feature rape, murder, and grief. if such topics will do anything negative to you in any way, please consider finding something else to read.

Morty was fifteen when he was murdered on December 15, 2022. He had been just another photo of a missing child on the news, making headlines to make one pause for just a second, thinking about the downfall of humanity before going on about their business, maybe sparing the matter a thought or two more before forgetting about it until he was pronounced dead. Or, another occurrence, people didn’t even pay attention. That seemed to be the more common thing, Morty noticed.

His killer was somebody from Morty's neighborhood, a boy, soon to be a man just six days after killing Morty. Morty had lived alongside him for half of his life; his mom had praised the boy, his dad had commended him—hell, his own _sister_ had liked him at some point. Needless to say, Morty had been acquainted with his murderer. 

But on December 15, 2022, it had been snowing, just marginally out of the usual for winter in Seattle, and Morty had missed the bus home. It was one of those days where Rick had allowed him to remain in school—of course, that had only been because Beth had made a threat that she would ground Morty from a  _ month  _ of adventures if he missed school that week, so both Rick and Morty had begrudgingly concurred. Ironically, going to school that week had been what led to Morty’s demise.

It was dark as Morty walked home, the setting sun casting delightful oranges, pinks, and indigos in the sky. 

The snow was falling delicately, whirlwinds of snowflakes catching Morty’s hair as he walked, and he was breathing through his somewhat runny nose. Only ten feet from where Dylan stood, Morty childishly stuck out his tongue to taste a snowflake that had fallen from the heavens.

“Morty,” said Dylan.

Morty had startled, all semblance of peace leaving him as he spun around on spot to see who had just called out his name. He eased when he saw his familiar neighbor, waiting for Dylan as he quickened his pace to catch up with Morty. _ Must be coming home from school too, _ Morty thought. It was only after Morty had died that he remembered that Dylan’s winter break had already started that Monday since he went to a different school than Morty.

“H-hi, Dylan,” Morty said.

“Hey, Morty. You coming home from school?”

“Y-y-yeah.”

Although Morty liked to consider himself to have a good set of morals and prided himself on being good at detecting one’s feelings, he had never felt comfortable around anyone besides his family.

Dylan nodded before an easy smirk was brought onto his face. “Hey, wanna check something out with me? I was exploring the woods last weekend and found a pretty cool place.”

Morty was intrigued, had always been naturally curious, but knew that if he came home later than he was supposed to that his ban on adventures with Rick might be increased, so he dejectedly shook his head. “N-no, s-sorry Dylan, I—I gotta get home. A-and I’m sorta cold.”

Dylan seemed to tense for a split second—Morty stilled because he thought the mannerism was slightly odd on his cool, older neighbor—but after a brief moment his posture returned to his normal relaxed pose. “C’mon, are you chicken Morty? It’ll be fun.”

Morty sighed and let his nosy side take over. “...Sure,” Morty relented, letting the older teenager take him aside, off the sidewalk, and venture into the forest.

A few brambles and thorns latched onto Morty as he walked, but he shook them off, continuing to struggle through the thick and overgrown shrubs and branches.

When Morty began to protest after a few minutes of nothing but him evading low-hanging sticks that threatened to poke his eye out, Dylan said it would only take a minute, so Morty followed him even deeper into the forest, where fewer branches were broken off because nobody but the animals went past 300 yards.

“I’ve made a little spot to hang out,” Dylan said as he and Morty continued to struggle (well, Morty had struggled, but Dylan had been walking as if nothing was in his way) along in the forest. It had reached the point that Morty had begun to fall so far behind that Dylan had to reach out behind him to snag Morty’s wrist and drag him along the way, making big strides with his long legs that were far longer than Morty’s.

Morty nervously chuckled. “W-well I-I dunno who would want to hide out enough t-to travel a quarter mile just—just to get here.”

“ _ Exactly, _ ” Dylan had said in a slightly animalistic tone.

After a few more steps, Dylan came to a stop and hauled Morty to his side, slugging an arm around Morty. Morty jumped skittishly and peered up at the sky; it was pitch black at this point, causing Morty to grimace—he was definitely getting more time added to the ban.

“We’re here!” Dylan said happily, grinning towards a hut he’d seemingly made.

Morty bit his lip. The hut was made out of twigs and branches and had a lit lantern sitting inside of it.

“Well, go on,” Dylan said, shoving Morty lightly towards the hut. 

Morty sighed, shaking his head, and brought out his phone to text Rick. “Uh, thanks for bringing me out here but I-I-I should get going unless I want t-to get in trouble.” Hopefully, he could ask Rick to portal out here and portal back into the garage before his family had noticed his absence. That’d be pushing it though; it’d only been 4:30 when he left school and it was now 6. He’d be cutting it close if Beth and Jerry, though painfully unobservant of Morty, hadn’t known he was missing. And Summer was another thing entirely.

But Dylan made to grab the phone away from Morty, holding it over the short boy’s head. Morty huffed; he hated it when people took advantage of his short height. “K-knock it off, dude, I—I gotta—I gotta t-tell my grandpa to come pick me up.”

Dylan gave a sour grin like the Cheshire cat. “Not before you get in our hangout place, Morty,” he tutted.

Dylan’s behavior was the first red flag—at least the first that Morty had caught notice of. But he’d been angry, so he barely paid any mind towards it. 

“D-Dylan, y-you’re being a dick, j-just lemme leave.”

Dylan said nothing, so Morty sighed and began walking over to the hovel. It was awkward to get into, and even Morty, with his tiny figure, had to bow his head so as not to hit himself on the ceiling and have the branches come crashing down.

“H-happy?” Morty glowered.

Dylan’s smile broadened. “Yes.”

Morty rolled his eyes and began to crawl out of the den. “O-okay, now give me my phone back, Dylan.”

Dylan approached the hut, holding Morty’s phone out towards him. Morty made to grab it, but before he could grasp the small object, Dylan snapped the phone over his knee and threw the discarded parts over his shoulder and into the nearby woods. Dylan gave a cruel grin as Morty began to sputter.

“D-dude!” Morty gawked, his eyes bulging out of his head. “What the hell?!”

Morty, who had now escaped the hut to stand and yell at Dylan, was quickly kicked roughly in the shin. Though his adventures with Rick had raised his guard (and certainly his pain tolerance) he hadn’t been expecting it and doubled over, clutching his appendage. Dylan seemed to take the chance and shoved him unceremoniously back into the hut.

The wind was knocked out of him as he fell against the trunk of a tree that was the back of the hut, and Dylan squatted down towards the entrance of the hut to peer down at Morty.

Morty was breathing heavily, eying Dylan cautiously; it was like a game of predator and prey, Morty a helpless rabbit and Dylan a ruthless wolf. One had the benefit of being lithe and speedy while the other had the benefit of being strong and tactful. It was almost always a losing battle for the prey.

Dylan crawled into the hut and Morty whimpered as he felt the back of his head oozing with blood from how hard he was shoved into the hole.

Dylan rested a hand on Morty’s thigh and Morty’s breath hitched.

“You’re very pretty, Morty,” Dylan said, beginning to raise his hand upwards. Morty began to squirm.

“ _P_ _lease... _ ” Morty gasped. “St-stop.”

Dylan smiled. He began to grope Morty’s package.

Morty started hyperventilating. He suddenly thrashed about, getting out of Dylan’s reach. Morty landed a punch upon Dylan’s jaw and stood up, not caring about the splinters or the throbbing in his head, only caring about fleeing the situation.

Dylan yelled and began to run after Morty. Morty may have gotten quicker due to his outings with Rick but Dylan’s long legs were too much for Morty.

Dylan soon caught up and snatched Morty around his middle, scooping him up by his torso and neck and heaving him into his strong arms. Morty screamed, kicking against Dylan, but Dylan brought up a hand and pressed it harshly against Morty’s mouth, blocking anything from making it past Morty’s lips.

Dylan dragged him over to the small clearing, throwing Morty onto the snowy forest floor and keeping his hand to Morty’s face.

Tears and snot streamed down Morty’s face as Dylan began to take Morty’s clothes off. Morty’s green parka was thrown to the side as Dylan moved to his jeans.

Morty sobbed as his dick was revealed. It contracted due to its sensitivity to the cold and Morty could hear an audible moan from Dylan.

Morty bit Dylan’s hand as the palm dipped down further into his mouth and a shriek escaped Dylan. Morty fought hard, as hard as he could to not let Dylan hurt him any further, but his as-hard-as-he-could wasn’t hard enough, not even close, and Morty was flipped around to be laid on his stomach. Dylan panted and sweat and laid his hands on Morty’s wet with tears face.

Morty had shut his eyes tight as Dylan whispered dirty nothings in his ear. 

Morty tried to think of anything else besides the heavy breathing in his ear.

Morty thought of his mother, of his father. Beth was most likely cooking dinner now, having now certainly noticed Morty’s absence, and checking the dial of the clock on the oven. She would be worried, yet increasingly angry over Morty’s lateness. Jerry would be sitting at the counter, watching his wife fuss over the meal and their son, only slightly worried himself but for all the wrong reasons.

Morty thought of Summer. She, even with her phone addiction, would’ve instantly noticed Morty’s absence when he hadn’t shown up when he normally did when he rode the bus. She probably went to check the garage, half expecting Morty to be in there, messing with a new contraption with Rick, or half expecting both of them to be gone, having snuck out to go on an adventure. But she would’ve opened the door to see Rick altering a device all by his lonesome, without Morty.

Morty thought of Rick. Rick would’ve, as much as the man denied it, missed his sidekick, his partner in crime all throughout the day. He would’ve moped and fiddled with his projects he and Morty had started together, been exasperated when Summer came in to check and see if Morty was there, become irritated when thirty minutes had passed and there was no sign of Morty, but become worried when an hour passed and there was still no sign of the kid.

Dylan began to press his lips to Morty’s. They were blubbery and wet and Morty wanted to scream but was too exhausted from the fight, too scared to make a peep.

His lips were reserved for Rick and for Rick only, so it felt like disloyalty to Morty’s companion, to Morty’s only friend. The last time he’d kissed Rick’s lips was only this morning, a standard goodbye between the two before Morty had to leave for school. Morty’s green eyes had crinkled at Rick and Rick’s own blue eyes had softened in turn. 

“Don’t, D-Dylan,” Morty managed, pulling his head away sharply from the kiss. Morty had kept continuously saying that word a lot. _ Don’t _ and _ please _ were sporadically thrown out in his sentences. 

“I  _ want  _ you, Morty,” Dylan moaned, stroking every exposed surface of Morty he could find.

“Please,” Morty said. “Don’t,” Morty said. Sometimes they were combined into “please don’t” or “don’t please”.

“Please...”

But Dylan grew tired, too tired, of hearing Morty plead. He snatched the yellow shirt from off the forest floor where it had been laying, discarded, and smashed it in the boy’s mouth. The only sounds made after that were moans and the light slapping of skin on skin.

As he kissed his wet lips down Morty’s face and neck and began to fondle Morty’s testicles, Morty wept. He had begun to leave his mind, his body; he began to inhabit the air and the silence. He cried and struggle as to not feel.

Dylan reached up, restraining Morty’s wrists against the forest floor, moving his head down to Morty’s crotch. Dylan felt Morty in his mouth, licking all around, and Morty felt trapped.

He felt huge and bloated. Morty felt like the sea in which Dylan stood and pissed and shat. He felt the corners of his body cave in, turning in and out on themselves.

Dylan started working himself over Morty.

“Morty, I need your help on an adventure. ‘Need’ is a strong word. We need door stops, but a brick would work too.”

He was inside of Morty.

“What about the reality where Hitler cured cancer, Morty? The answer is: Don’t think about it.”

He was grunting.

“Does evil exist, and if so, can one detect and measure it? Rhetorical question, Morty. The answer’s ‘yes, you just have to be a genius.’”

Morty was the mortar, Dylan was the pestle.

“Be good, Morty. Be better than me.”

Dylan forced Morty to lie still underneath the almost eighteen-year-old and listen to the beating of his heart and the beating of Morty’s own. How Morty’s skipped frantically, and how Dylan’s thudded, a hammer against china plates. They laid there with their bodies intertwined, and, as Morty shook, an incredible, all-consuming knowledge took hold. Dylan had done something to Morty and Morty had lived. That was all. Morty was still breathing. Morty heard Dylan’s heart, smelled his breath. Morty could have screamed for hours.

He’d been so alive then. 

Morty realized he was going to be killed. However, he hadn’t realized that he was an animal already dying.

Dylan continued to give Morty kisses down his neck, but they were gentle, like a lover.  Like Rick.

Morty couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything. Even the tears had stopped coming, either due to dehydration or his absence of emotion, Morty had no idea.

Dylan, at last, stopped, laying flat against Morty. There was a stillness in the air, and Morty knew it to be late in the evening. Possibly midnight.

Out of nowhere, there was movement on top of Morty, and Dylan shifted. He leaned to the side and felt, over his head, across the ledge where his bag sat. Dylan brought back a knife. Unsheathed, it smiled eerily at Morty, curving up in a grin.

Dylan took the shirt from Morty’s mouth.

“Tell me that you love me,” said Dylan.

Gently, Morty did.

The end came anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty’s heaven was made up of the stars, the ocean, rainy days, and a garden of daffodils. Rick’s hell was paved with dependence, failure, belittlement, and his grandson’s death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the love this fic has received! it really makes my day <3
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Rick had been wrong; there  _was_ an afterlife.

When Morty had first approached heaven, he thought that everyone saw the same thing as him. That in everyone’s heaven there were unexplored planets in the distance, burning suns, moons orbiting colorful planets, millions of stars twinkling in the deep blue sky.

But after a few days in heaven, he realized that the astronauts exploring distant planets and the astronomers peering up at the forever-midnight painted sky were all in their own versions of heaven. Morty’s heaven shared similarities with theirs, but their heavens expanded past his. 

Morty soon learned that his heaven was expanded past space as well; he laid on the shoreline some days, bathing in the sun and enjoying the waves lapping at his toes; he danced in the rain as he had on those rainy Wednesdays on Earth, his soaked hair plastering to his face in wet curls; he even sat in a garden full of blooming daisies, daffodils, and begonias, rested in the fluffy grass and watched the beautiful blue sky, making shapes out of the puffy white clouds that passed by. His heaven expanded again when he grew to desire more, but he typically stuck to his main four heavens, only rarely venturing out to explore his other Zions.

He made friends in death, coming across new personalities that were like his own. But often, Morty preferred being alone.

He had been given, in his heaven, his wildest and simplest dreams.

Eventually, though, he grew lonely, even with his new friends. They had their own heavens, and only rarely did theirs conjoin with Morty’s. What he craved, however, was a way to look down on his family, on the life he’d once had.

So a gazebo grew in the center of Morty’s garden. The gazebo had white pillars with vines spiraling down them and small, comfortable benches inhabited the structure. (His neighbors, the Adsons, had had a gazebo; he had grown up jealous for one.)

Maybe Morty couldn’t have what he wanted most; to be alive and back with his family. Heaven wasn’t perfect, but Morty yearned for a way to view his family, to view the lives touched by his loss. 

So he did.

* * *

Beth was, at first, the one most present to deal with the police.

She’d been the one to call 911, to file a missing persons case for Morty while the family sat in the living room, listening to Beth’s trembling voice inform the police of Morty’s absence.

During the next couple of days, the inter-dimensional Tv hadn’t been turned on at all, and, instead, only played their local news station. They’d seen the news report on Morty’s case five times, in counting.

Jerry had resided in either his man cave or the living room during the days, never anywhere else. He was getting increasingly worried over his son, over the family he’d envisioned having ever since he was a child and first watched the misadventures of Clark Griswold and his family in the  _National Lampoon’s Vacation_ movies.

Beth had only been drinking wine, either from a wine glass or straight from the bottles. She stumbled around the house, lounging in her bed, but never entered Morty’s room. She couldn’t take it, she couldn’t take the disappearance of her youngest. While Summer had always been Beth’s child and Morty had always been Rick’s, it would still tear Beth apart to have either of her offsprings harmed. (She tried to keep the pessimistic  _killed_ from entering her drunken thoughts but little worked.)

Summer had completely abandoned her phone unless it was to try and call her brother for the umpteenth time. She knew her efforts would be fruitless every time, she knew that Morty had either lost his phone or it was dead, but she still tried. She paced in front of the door every so often, stared out the front window, went on the balcony to observe any passing figures wearing yellow.

Rick had spent his time in the garage, frantically trying to externally fix Morty’s tracking chip that had been implanted in Morty’s brain. Rick knew that it had sustained damage (damage, only Morty knew, received from his last moment alive) and he tried ever so desperately to get Morty’s coordinates. Other times, when Rick got too drunk to even see straight, he sat in his chair, reflecting back on his wonderful times with his favorite grandchild. Some of them were platonic, memories from before he and Morty became intimate, and the others were sweet, loving memories that were Rick’s all-time favorites.

Then, on the second day, there was a call from the police station.

Beth answered it, sobering up like she had every time there had been a call within the past few days.

“Hello?” She asked, her tone laced with fervor. 

“Beth Smith?” The police station had gotten familiar with Beth.

“Yes?”

A long sigh drifted through the phone. “Detective Frederick Calvin, speaking. There’s been...an update.”

Beth’s breath caught in her throat.

“We’ve found a hand buried near the forest next to your neighborhood,” Frederick Calvin spoke. “We’ve tested it, and it’s an exact match of your son’s DNA.”

* * *

“Nothing is certain,” Jerry reassured a crying Beth. She hiccuped and sniffled and nodded, going through the motions.

Everyone knew that nothing was certain—that Morty could definitely be alive and he might even be thriving without a hand (Rick certainly taught him to make the best of his situation, after all)—but it had been two days. Rick, who could do  _anything_ , couldn’t even track Morty down.

No one spoke. Morty had watched as his family looked at one another in the well-lit room. Beth had slowed her tears, Jerry had looked uncomfortable, Summer had looked sorrowful, and Rick—Morty almost couldn’t believe the man’s expression—had looked  lost. He looked desperately lost without Morty clamoring, laughing,  _being_ by his side. 

The silence carried on as, at one point, it began to rain. They all were thinking the same thing, but no one voiced it. That Morty, dead or alive, was out somewhere in the rain. They had all hoped that he was safe wherever he was, that he was dry, warm, and content.

Morty had looked away then, unable to watch even though he had seen so many monstrosities during his short existence. 

He, instead, focused on Rick’s garage. There were no new projects littering the counters and none of his and Rick’s projects that they’d started together ( _as Morty had sat on Rick’s lap,_ Morty reminisced fondly,  _with Rick pressing loving kisses to Morty’s forehead_ ) had been moved an inch. Morty knew that they might never move, that, over time, they might collect a thin layer of dust over the wires and screws.

Rick suddenly stormed into the garage, slamming the door behind him. Morty watched with wide eyes as Rick stomped over to his workbench, glaring daggers at the table and the objects on said surface. Rick paused, reeling with the new information. Morty clutched his arm as he watched the man’s shaky form.

“Goddammit, Morty!” Rick yelled and, as quick as a bolt of lightning, Rick flailed his long arm, striking the data receiver to Morty’s tracking chip. The device shot off the table and dropped to the concrete floor below, shattering into a million pieces. Morty watched in slow motion as Rick watched what he’d done, saw all the progress he’d erased, how he’d just taken a hundred steps back and away from finding Morty, from finding one of the only people he’d ever truly  _ loved _ .

“...Shit,” Rick breathed and his composure cracked from there. “ _ SHIT! _ ”

Rick fell to the ground and picked up a fist of the broken metal and glass. Blood oozed out of his clenched palm as Rick ran his other hand through his spiked hair, messying the blue hair up. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _Morty_ ,” Rick whimpered. The only thing Morty wanted was to wrap his arms around the man he loved. To confirm to Rick that everything was alright, that Morty, though dead, was fine. To tell him that he should live, to move on without his companion.

“I-I can fix it, I swear, I-I-I can fucking  _fix this_ _!_ ” Rick growled. He stood up and dropped the small bits of the device on the desk. He scooped up the rest of them and plopped them down on there as well.

Rick had a manic look in his eyes as he stared down at the broken contents of what used to be Morty’s data receiver. “I-I—I’m Rick! Rick motherfucking Sanchez and I  will fucking find you, _Morty_! Morty, you—you—you  dumbass son of a bitch!”

Uncharacteristic tears were streaming down Rick’s face and apparently, the elder had no idea of their existence when they fell from his cheeks to the very table he was now so frantically working on. “I-I....I’m going to  fucking _find you_ , Morty, and you’re—you’re  never  leaving my side again you dipshit, I  _swear_.”

A blood vessel looked like it was ready to burst on Rick’s forehead and the man’s unibrow was so furrowed with fury that it made a perfect ‘V’. He pulled out his flask and chugged its innards all at once. He burped when he was done and clumsily resumed his work.

Morty watched Rick carefully throughout the better part of the night. He held his breath as Rick steadily became more emotional and off-balance. At this point, had Morty been there, he would have gently led Rick away from his work, taken Rick to his room, set the man down on his side, brought him a bucket for him to throw up in, and laid there happily in his arms when the man inevitably requested for him to do so.

But Morty wasn’t there—physically.

So all Morty could do was rub phantom circles into Rick’s back as the man threw up in the garage’s garbage can, hoping that it was enough.

* * *

The next morning, police officers roped off the outskirts of the forest to begin with their search, almost fifty miles away from where they should be looking.

And even earlier the next morning, Rick barged into Summer’s room, disrespecting her privacy just as he had to Morty.

“S-Summer—Sum-Sum, get—URP—ge’ up.”

Summer rolled on her left side, burying her face in her comforter. She moaned into her pillow, “ _ What _ ?”

“We—we gotta—we’re gonna, gonna uhhh... gonna find your brother,” Rick slurred drunkenly. He pulled out his flask and drank sloppily from it, beads of the alcoholic beverage trailing out of his mouth.

Summer sat up in bed, revealing herself to be, quite frankly, a mess. Her hair was in disarray since she hadn’t been wearing it in her normal ponytail. Her eyes had slowly developing bags under them and her mascara was smudged from her not taking it off from the night before.

“Grandpa Rick, are you sure it’s a good idea to get involved in all of...this?” Summer said lightly. Though she wasn’t as much of an expert as Morty had been to handling a drunken Rick, she knew that he was emotional and unstable when he drank far too much than he should, so she kept her tone gentle.

Summer’s words took a minute to process for Rick. His buzzed mind was running a mile a second so it was hard for anything to get a word in edgewise.

“S-Summer—of course i-it’s fuckin’ okay! The...The police don’t know  shit  about what the hell t-they’re doin’! We—y-you and I have  _sooooo_ much m-m-more experience: we’ll—we’ll find M-Morty in twenty minutes tops!” Rick said crossly. Drool dribbled down his chin in strands and onto Summer’s carpet. 

Summer curled in on herself until she realized that, with Morty out of the picture (for the time being, Summer hoped) she’d be in charge of Rick, of making sure he didn’t do anything too immoral or reckless. Up until that point she hadn’t realized how truly unglamorous her brother had it. So she got out of bed and slowly placed her hands on Rick’s shoulders.

Rick continued. “And...and then, when we—URPP—f-find ‘im, we’ll, I’ll... I’ll keep ‘im locked up in my—his—our room. No more school, no...no more errands, just—just Rick and Morty time f-forever,” Rick garbled, throwing his hands about. Summer dodged the flying hands that were rapidly zooming towards her face. “Just...just us time,” said Rick.

Summer sighed and stopped struggling against Rick. He sensed as much and stopped waving his arms about. Summer sat the two of them down on the edge of her bed and rubbed her temples. “Okay, grandpa Rick... We can look.”

Rick narrowed his eyes and smiled, tipping his flask out towards her that he’d retrieved from his coat as she’d been talking. “‘Atta g—HUGHH—irl. Get uh, get ready and then we’ll leave in like... seven minutes.” And Rick left the room.

Summer fell backward on her bed, her arms spread eagle. 

She prayed that they would find her little brother.

* * *

Police officers stood on the forest border, growing more and more frustrated, plying the cold wet ground for evidence as they looked for Morty. At the same time, Rick and Summer ambled around aimlessly in the forest. Morty watched raptly as the two different groups of investigators looked for him, and he scanned for any lurking dangers.

Morty knew exactly where his body was but he could not tell anyone. He only watched and waited to see what they would see. And then, like the domino effect, late in the afternoon, a police officer found a discarded book buried in the bushes right as Rick found a damp patch of dirt.

“Over here!” Rick and the officer yelled in unison, though in different places.

Summer ran up to Rick as the officers ran up to their counterpart.

The police called up Harry Herpson High School. 

“Principal Vagina here, no correlation,” The principal of the school answered. 

Detective Frederick Calvin spoke. “Hi, this is Officer Frederick Calvin speaking. I believe we’ve found new evidence to add to the Mortimer Smith case that needs to be confirmed.”

“What’s up?”

Rick held up a sample from the ground for Summer to look at.

“What is it?”

Rick sighed and hung his head. “It’s soil taken from the ground. I’ve just scanned it. It contains traces of Morty’s DNA.”

Frederick Calvin rode his patrol car up to Harry Herpson High School. Gene Vagina was standing outside of the school, waiting for him, a grim look on his aged face.

The police officer parked and got out of his car, strolling up to the man. 

“Do you currently have a tenth grade English teacher on campus?” Frederick Calvin asked.

Gene Vagina nodded and led the detective into the school.

“What...what does this mean?” Summer questioned shakily.

“I-it means what it means, Summer,” Rick said somberly. “But, f-for your brother’s sake, let’s hope it means something else.”

Rick gently placed the bag of dirt in an evidence preserver and placed the carrier in the bag.

Frieda Grate sat behind her desk as Frederick Calvin stood facing her and interrogated the woman.

“Mrs. Grate,” Frederick Calvin said, “does this book look familiar to you?” He took a paperback copy of  _The Book Thief_ from out of his bag and placed it on her wooden desk. “Are your students currently reading this at school?”

Mrs. Grate’s face was drained of all color. “Yes...”

Frederick Calvin nodded. “Are there any defining features you’ve made your students do to their books? Names written on them, notes in the margins?”

“I’ve made them write notes in the margins,” Mrs. Grate confirmed. She stared into Frederick Calvin’s silvery gray eyes. “I... I have other examples of Mr. Smith’s handwriting as well if it’s needed as reference.”

“Please.”

Rick took Summer back home, portaling her into the empty kitchen. Summer went off to do whatever and Rick instantly made for the garage.

He emptied his bag and specifically reached for the evidence container. He grabbed the bag and set it on the table. He analyzed the soil, observing the substance. When tested, it showed that there was a dense concentration of Morty’s blood mixed with the dirt.

Everything checked out.

The police made calls. Morty watched the circle widen. The police used other handwritten notes and papers of Morty’s to determine that the copy of  _The Book Thief_ was his.

Detective Calvin called Morty’s parents. “We’ve found a book. The tenth graders had been reading it. It has your son’s handwriting in it.”

The evidence was mounting, but Jerry, who had envisioned a perfectly normal family, still refused to believe. “It could be anyone’s, Beth. Or he could have dropped it.”

They both thought otherwise but denied ever thinking so.

Rick kept the evidence he’d found to himself. Maybe there was a way that everything could be denied.

All of it made Morty crazy. Watching but not being able to steer Rick or the police toward the small house three doors down from his old house, where Dylan sat and played video games. Morty knew his assailant had watched the news, seen the newspapers, but the teen professed his innocence like he spouted out the answer to a simple math problem.

There had been a calamity mounting inside of Dylan but now... now there was just calm.

There was too much blood in Earth’s soil.

One piece of evidence led to the change in nature of Morty’s absence.

A man emerged from a glowing iridescent green portal. He walked into the front office of a police station, everyone nearby jumping at his sudden appearance.

“Oh my god!”s were screamed. “What the hell!”s were prevalent too.

Amongst the chaos “State your name, age, and business!” rung throughout the room. It was authoritative, and the words came from Detective Frederick Calvin.

The odd man took out a flask from his long, white lab coat and sipped from it nonchalantly, as if the man had asked him something as simple as “What’re your plans for this weekend?”

Finally, after a long gulp, the man wiped his mouth and replied.

“Rick Sanchez, fuck you, and I-I’ve—URP—found something of Morty Smith’s.”

* * *

Detective Calvin walked Rick to his desk, offering him a seat. He then sat down behind his own desk and stared Rick down.

“Do you have any affiliation with Mortimer Smith?” Frederick Calvin asked, clasping his hands together.

“Duh, shit brain, he’s—he’s my grandson.”

Calvin knitted his brow in concern. “You’re family?”

“No, he’s delivered me my pizza once, nothing else,” Rick said sarcastically. “Yes, dipshit, I-I’m his mother’s father. Pretty—EUGH—pretty simple.”

Calvin breathed away his frustration. “...Right. Excuse me.” Calvin blinked in an attempt to get back on his train of thought. “Now... what the hell was that  _thing_ back there?”

“Uh, a portal?” Rick said as it if it was obvious.

“...A portal?”

“Yes, it was a goddamned portal! Get over it!” Rick snapped. “I’m the s-smartest fucking thing in the—the multiverse! It makes it pretty fuckin’ simple to make a portal!”

Calvin held up his hands in alarm. “Fine, sorry! Forget I asked!”

Rick leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. Frederick Calvin could tell that the elder was annoyed and he cleared his throat.

“Forgive me. What exactly have you found of Mortimer’s?”

“Fuckin’ finally you ask,” Rick growled. “That’s the only reason I’m here.” He pulled out a sample of soil.

Calvin picked up the baggie containing the dirt.

“...What does this have to do with the boy?”

Rick rolled his eyes. “I’ve reviewed over this—the soil. It contains dense concentrations of his blood.”

Calvin raised a brow. “Anything else?”

Rick’s face darkened. “I think you should further explore the forest. It...it looks like he was there on the 15th.” With a sudden flip of his hand, his murderous expression changed to one of measured indifference. “But run the tests, review the dirt, d-do whatever you have to. Just...please... find my grandson.”

And just like that, Rick stood up and shielded his face. He fired his portal gun, and left the room, leaving Frederick Calvin sitting there in shock.

* * *

Sure enough, the tests confirmed what Rick had said. 

The police officers decided to set forth and explore the forest clearings. There appeared to be freshly manipulated bits of trees and bushes that looked like they had been tread upon.

It took a while, reviewing the paths, to find another daunting piece of evidence.

“Sir,” an inferior officer said as he ran up to Calvin. “We found something.”

Frederick Calvin reviewed the evidence the man held in his hand. 

“Add it to the list. And I think we’re done for the day.”

They finally had enough evidence.

* * *

On December 19th, among the knocks on the door that signaled to Morty’s family that they would have to further numb themselves before answering the door to strangers—the kind and awkward neighbors, the ditzy and insulting reporters—came the final blow that caused Morty’s family to break down.

It was Frederick Calvin, who had been kind to the family, so understanding. 

The officer came inside, by now familiar enough with the house to know that Beth preferred for him to say what he had to in the living room so that the whole family could listen to any updates.

“We’ve found a personal item that we believe to be Mortimer’s,” Frederick said. He was careful. Morty could see him calculating his words.

“What?” Beth said impatiently. She crossed her arms and braced for another inconsequential detail in which her daughter and husband invested meaning. She was a brick wall. Schoolbooks meant nothing to her. Her son could still survive without an arm. A lot of blood was just that—a lot of blood. It wasn’t a body. Jerry had said it, and Beth, for once, believed him: nothing is certain.

But when they held up the evidence bag containing Morty’s yellow shirt, something broke in her. The fine wall of leaden crystal that held her heart—numbed her into disbelief—shattered.

“His shirt...” Summer said. Hot tears were trickling down her face. No one had seen her begin to cry but Morty.

Beth made a sound and ran a shaking hand through her hair. The sound was a metallic squeak, the sound of one of Rick’s inventions breaking down, a machine uttering its last oily noise before its engine locks up and Rick has to go and repair it.

“We’ve tested the fibers,” Frederick said. “It appears whoever accosted Mortimer used this.”

“...Fuck...” Rick croaked. He was, for once, powerless. He was being told something that even the smartest man in existence couldn’t comprehend.

“It was used as a way to keep him quiet.”

Jerry frowned. As always, he was the one left in the dark. “What?”

Frederick sighed. “It’s covered with his saliva. He’d been gagged with it.”

Beth grabbed the vibrant yellow T-shirt from out of Frederick Calvin’s hands, and she buried her face up against the blood-stained material. The tears dampened the article of clothing.

Morty saw Summer stiffen. Their parents were unrecognizable to her; everything was blank and unrecognizable.

“Mr. Smith,” Frederick Calvin said, “with the amount of blood we’ve found and the violence it implies, as well as other material evidence we’ve discussed, we must work with the assumption that your son is dead.”

Rick heard what he’d already known, had known deep down ever since the 15th of December when Morty hadn’t come home.  Beth began to wail.

“We’ll be addressing this as a murder investigation from now on,” Calvin said.

“But...there isn’t a body,” Jerry tried. Morty could see the seams holding his father together rip apart and he realized how much his dad had loved him.

“All evidence points to your son’s death. I’m very sorry.” Frederick Calvin met Jerry’s pleading gaze. “I’ll call to check in on you later today.”

By the time Jerry had turned back to the living room, he was too devastated to reach out to his wife or his daughter’s still form nearby.

And Rick, who’d fled the room as soon as his eyes welled up with tears, leaned against the door to his and Morty’s room that they used to share together at night.

The back of his head hit the hard surface with a thump as Rick allowed the tears to fall.

He heaved with sobs but his throat was too constricted to even allow sound to escape him.

His Morty...

_Dead._

* * *

That afternoon the four of them crept forward in silence, as if the sound of footsteps might confirm the news.

At seven P.M., Beth and Jerry ended up standing in the kitchen downstairs. They had come in from opposite doorways.

Morty’s mother looked to his father: “Joyce and Leonard,” she said, and he nodded his head. He made the phone call to Morty’s paternal grandparents, delivering the news.

The house remained quiet.

* * *

Morty worried that his sister, left alone, would do something rash. She sat in her room on her twin bed and worked on hardening herself.

Beth told her that it would be her choice whether or not she wanted to return to school before Christmas—there was only one week left remaining—but Summer chose to go.

On Tuesday, she wore her hair down to school for the first time since her freshmen year. Everyone stared at her as she approached her desk.

A hand placed itself on her shoulder. She turned around to face Mr. Goldenfold. 

“Principal Vagina wants to see you,” Mr. Goldenfold confided. He looked unsure of himself. 

Morty’s sister did not look at Mr. Goldenfold when he spoke. She was perfecting the art of talking to someone while she stared straight through them. That was Morty’s first clue that something would have to give.

That morning, she would begin looking into the eyes of only those people she could fight against.

As she gathered her things, she heard whispers everywhere. She was certain that Tricia Lange had whispered something to Nancy Greer. Someone had dropped something near the back of the classroom. They did this, Summer believed, so that on their way to pick it up they could say a word or two to the student neighboring them about the dead boy’s sister.

Summer walked through the hallways and in and out of the rows of lockers—dodging anyone who might be near. Morty wished he could walk with her, mimic the principal and the way he always introduced himself as having no correlation with his last name: “My n-name is Gene Vagina, n-no association!” Morty would whine in her ear, never failing to make her laugh.

But while she had been blessed with empty halls, when she reached the front office she was cursed with the sympathetic looks of consoling secretaries. 

But it didn’t matter. She had prepared herself at home while Morty had watched. She was armed to the teeth for any onslaught of sympathy.

She entered the principal’s office when a graying secretary told her to. Principal Vagina looked up from a stack of papers. His neutral expression shifted to one that made Summer’s skin crawl. 

“Summer,” Mr. Vagina said, “I received a call from the police this morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”

If looks could kill, Summer could’ve taken down an entire army with one glance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vagina, but what exactly  _is_ my loss?”

The clock ticked on in the background and Summer stared past Mr. Vagina’s bald head and through the window. The winter morning was dark and damp and snow rested on the windowpane.

Mr. Vagina sighed and walked out from behind his desk. He sat on the edge of it and motioned for Summer to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. She refused.

“We’re here to help in any way we can, Summer,” Mr. Vagina said. Morty had sympathy for the man, as well as any other being that would encounter the force to be reckoned with that was his sister.

“I’m fine,” Summer said curtly.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“What?” Summer asked accusingly. She was being what her mother called ‘petulant’ as in “Summer, don’t speak to your father in that petulant tone.”

“...Your loss,” he said. He hesitantly reached out to touch Summer’s shoulder. His hand was like a brand burning into her flesh and she shrugged it off.

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that I’d lost anything.”

Mr. Vagina didn’t know what to say. He’d had Grace Henson fall apart in his arms the year previous. It’d been difficult, indeed, but now Grace Henson and her dead grandmother seemed like a skillfully handled crisis. He remembered simply saying “I’m sorry for your loss,” and having the girl burst into tears like a water balloon hitting a slab of concrete. He’d held her as she sobbed and that night he had to wash the tear stains from out of his blue button up.

But Summer Smith was an entirely different thing. She was sarcastic and fairly smart. The only records of her getting into trouble were for minor things, like incessantly texting in class.

“L-leave her alone,” Morty said urgently. Morty wanted to be able to tell him what he was doing wrong. “Let her have a n-normal day. Give her a distraction. M-make her laugh!” All Morty could do was talk, give suggestions, but no one could hear him.

“What I’m saying is that we all miss Morty,” Mr. Vagina said.

Summer snorted. “He didn’t have any friends. If people miss him, they’re too late.”

Mr. Vagina winced. “Well...he was very smart,” he tried.

She stared blankly back at him. “He had autism, sir. You and your staff placed him in mind numbingly easy classes because of that. I don’t think you even know a thing about who you’re talking about so don’t even try. It’s insulting.”

Mr. Vagina resembled a fish out of water. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he wanted to say something but had no idea what.

“Anything else?” Summer asked. Her expression was fiery and her red hair made her look even more likely to combust into flames.

“No, I...” Mr. Vagina reached out his hand again. He was grasping at straws now. “I want you to know how sorry we are. How sorry  _everyone_ is.”

Stony silence.

The bell rang in the distance.

“I’m late for first period,” Summer said with a glare.

In that moment, she reminded Morty of a character in the Westerns that he and Rick used to watch together, the ones that were the more extreme interdimensional counterparts of C-137’s broadcasts. There was always a man who, after he shot a gun, raised the pistol up to his lips and blew air across the barrel. The men had always reminded Morty of Rick, so maybe Summer was growing into her genetic extremities. Either way, she looked fierce, and it sent chills up Morty’s spine.

Summer got up and slowly walked out of Principal Vagina’s office. The walk was the only time she allowed herself to rest. Secretaries were now on the other side of the door, teachers were at the front of the class, students in every desk, her parents at home, police sirens nearby. She wouldn’t break. Morty watched her, felt the lines she repeated over and over in her head.  _Fine. Everything is  fine. _ Morty was dead but that was natural. It was a fact—people died. Hell, she’d caused people to die. It was a normal, daily aspect in her life, so why did it suffocate her this time? Her real brother  had died over a year ago, only for this Morty to replace him. Why was this more difficult?

As she left the office that day, she appeared to be looking into the eyes of the secretaries, but she was focusing on their misapplied lipstick or on their obnoxiously patterned blouse instead.

At home that night she laid on the floor of her room and deleted half of the contacts saved in her phone. Now marked the end of her attempt to be popular. Life was short and so was popularity. She convinced herself that none of it mattered. Everything was bullshit.

* * *

Morty sat in the gazebo in the center of his heaven’s garden and watched his sister wipe away the remnants of her old life and begin her new one. One without Morty present in it.

Hours before Morty died, his mother had tidied up. She went through a box of old drawings he and Summer had drawn in their early childhoods, before the pressure of school and society had been too much. She’d separated a picture from the rest, peering down at the messily drawn image. It was something Morty had drawn; in the drawing, a thick blue line separated the air and the ground. She ended up setting it down on the kitchen counter and in the days that followed, Morty watched his family walk back and forth past that drawing. He became convinced that the thick blue line was a real place—an Inbetween, where heaven’s horizon met Earth’s. Morty wanted to go there, to disappear into the cerulean blue of Crayola, the spiky edges of lapis, the overlapping waves of Aegean, the soft and gentle nature of sky.

* * *

Often Morty found himself desiring simple things and they would come in breezes. Long strokes on a violin. Dainty notes issuing from a piano. Crescendos making Morty’s ears perk up. To put it simply: Music.

Every night in Morty’s heaven, wind-chimes tinkled in the distance and an orchestra played soft beginnings of musical beauty. The orchestra had wanted someone to play for and Morty was their audience. They played long into the nights.

There was harmony that was ever changing but beautiful the entire time. There were duets that made crazy schizoids of solace. There were solos that made waters still.

But no matter what the ensemble performed, at midnight, the clarinet, oboe, and flute players would slowly fade out of Morty’s heaven. The song reverberated until the remaining few, for a final time, passed the tune over and silence replaced it.

Morty would lay back down in his garden, laid down amongst the flowers, and watch the starry complexion of the sky.

The Smith house was always asleep by then; this was Morty’s Evensong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty watches the ocean swallow him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: the end of this chapter gets pretty fucked up (necrophilia type fucked up :/) stay safe

It surprised Morty to see who all had been affected by his death; for instance, though the two had had little interaction with one another after Morty’s crush on her had died out, Jessica had been undoubtedly distraught over Morty’s initial disappearance and eventual death.

The night that Morty had died, Jessica had been breached with a nightmare.

“I had a  _really_ weird dream,” Jessica said to her mother the next morning as her mom put on her makeup.

Jessica’s mother had hummed, a sign that she was listening to her daughter.

“I had a dream about Morty—Morty Smith, the one I’ve told you about? He was in my math class last year—but...I don’t know...” the redhead trailed off. She sat on her mom’s bed, swinging her feet. “It was kind of disturbing, really,” Jessica admitted.

Morty knew the dream that she’d spoken of; it was of Morty’s throat being slit, the final act that’d killed him.

“Jessica,” her mother said and Jessica’s mouth snapped shut. Her mother hated when Jessica talked over her, even if she had been the one to interrupt. “I think you’re letting your imagination get the best of you.”

Jessica took the cue and shut up. She didn’t return to the topic the whole way to school, and, four days later, when the story of Morty’s death spread and began to travel through the town like the plague she hadn’t uttered a word. She never spoke about her dream as she listened to all the added nuances that all horror stories had.

Jessica began to speak less at school. Morty’s death had shown her how, in the end, popularity didn’t matter. Ultimately, her friends had slowly given up on her after a few days of absolute silence from the girl and Jessica had been totally ostracized. Brad broke up with her and there came a new “hottest girl” that quickly filled Jessica’s shoes, attracting every boy with her wide hips, small waist, and big breasts.

Morty wished that Jessica and Summer, now in the same boat popularity-wise, would just talk. But, as if it was a big, last “fuck you” accompanied by a middle finger up to Morty, they never interacted during the last week of school, not once. It was as if a string of fate guided the two of them along, purposefully making sure that they stayed on opposite sides of the hall from one another.

However, Jessica followed Summer with her eyes. One thing that she’d gotten good at during her time being popular was noticing things. She noticed how teachers seemed eerily stern when they’d previously been lenient, giving out detentions and office referrals more than ever after news of Morty broke out. She noticed how parents directly picked their children up from school now, barely twenty kids riding the bus now. And she noticed how withdrawn Summer Smith had become, how she now wore her hair down and wore gray hoodies that covered up her lively pink shirts. 

She noticed the Smith family the most.

She hadn’t seen Mr. Smith’s car in the driveway on her way home from school every day, she hadn’t seen Mrs. Smith come home from work, wearing scrubs as she had in the past. And she hadn’t seen any traces of green portals, which struck Jessica as especially odd.

So Jessica investigated, just like what she’d done when she had wanted to confirm if a rumor concerning someone was true or not. 

She checked every yearbook she’d owned since second grade, the year she moved to Seattle and started school at Harry Herpson Elementary School. Morty had seemed to be an afterthought in every yearbook, never appearing in anything other than the picture that was taken at the beginning of the year.

In the beginning, Morty had felt suspicious at first, unknowing if she was doing all of this for another chance at popularity or something, but it was until the last day until Christmas break that she and Morty had seen something in the school hallway.

It was Brad and the new ‘it’ girl, Kennedy. Jessica had come upon them, but they hadn’t seen her—she’d stopped wearing vibrant colors, which made her a lot less eye-catching in the halls.

Kennedy was giggling to herself as Brad threw an arm around her shoulder smugly. Jessica could briefly see that his hand was inside her shirt— _Oh my god,_ both Morty and Jessica thought at the same time in complete disgust—and as Brad’s hand inched up, the giggling increased.

Jessica watched this encounter with wide eyes. She would have passed by, had it been anyone else, but this was her  ex-boyfriend.  The one who’d just broken up with her two days ago. So she stayed and watched.

“Come on,  _guuurl_ ,” Brad practically whined, “just lemme do something to you, it’ll be real quick.”

Jessica’s lip curled up. Morty felt his heart go out to the girl he’d once obsessed over.

Kennedy blushed but it was quite clear that she was very turned on. “ _Brad_ ,  not here, not right now, I can’t.”

A crazed glint sparked in Brad’s eyes as she leaned down to whisper in Kennedy’s ear. No one else but Brad, Kennedy, Jessica, and Morty heard it. “How about in the forest?”

Kennedy’s mouth dropped—she’d been at H.H.H.S. since October, long enough to know who Morty was and to learn about his recent death—but her pupils were enlarged to the size of marbles.

This time, Morty’s lip curled up in disgust at her obvious arousal.

After that, Brad’s locker had been burgled. Gone were his textbooks, his collection of nude photos of girls, and his secret stash of weed.

Jessica, who’d never so much as gotten drunk (she’d had a drink before, but she was sensible enough to stop after two or three beers), later smoked weed in her car in the school parking lot and returned home with red, bleary eyes and the appetite of an eighteen-year-old boy.

“Someone’s been having fun,” Jessica’s mom said as she served her daughter a third piece of pizza.

Jessica didn’t respond—she only continued to shovel pizza down her throat.

* * *

In some parts of Morty’s heaven, the air often smelled like citrus, much like the fresh-out-of-the-oven lemon tarts that his mother would make, the appetizing scent wafting through the house. He and Beth had been the only ones out of the family to ever enjoy the lemon-flavored goods. Not that they had ever complained—it just meant that there was more to themselves.

Morty would sit whole days in the gazebo, basking in the citrus smell, and watch people go about their lives. He watched his mom and dad either fight with each other, coddle one another, cry together, or sit silently. He watched Summer become a recluse, only texting people like Nancy and Ethan (the two had made up shortly before Morty’s death.) He tried to avoid watching Rick, unsure if he could handle the man’s reaction no matter what it was, whether it be misery or indifference. However, like he was under the influence of a particularly strong gravitational pull, Morty came back.

He always did.

* * *

On the morning of Morty’s fourteenth birthday, he’d come downstairs quietly, and he hadn’t even come across Rick, the drunk insomniac that he was.

He’d tiptoed over to the living room, where he saw about six presents occupying the surface.

Smiling happily to himself, just glad that no one had forgotten this year’s birthday, he crept towards the sliding glass door that led outside, opening it and allowing himself some fresh, dewy, early morning air. 

He moved to sit down on the porch, only slightly surprised to see Rick sitting out there as well, only just out of sight from an initial look outside the glass door.

He’d been sitting there so still, so out of body but yet confined to the innards of Rick’s head. In his left hand, he held a cigarette and in the other, he held a bottle of untouched vodka, like he’d contemplated sipping it but had ultimately decided against it.

Birds had been chirping, flying in and out of Morty and Rick’s field of vision, that is to say, if Rick saw them at all, with him being as spaced out as he was.

Rick’s gray skin had looked positively fluorescent in the lightening sky. His eyes, normally a slate blue, had been full and cobalt, no trace of bloodshot eyes anywhere. The first time he’d seen his grandfather completely sober was on his fourteenth birthday. It was like its own birthday gift in a way.

Morty’s breath had been bated instinctively. The beginnings of Morty’s year-long metanoia had started, and Morty had watched Rick with bated breath. Simple facts slowly riddled Morty’s mind; the sun hadn’t risen fully yet, thick, wet mist was beginning to settle into the ground, and Morty was falling in love with his grandfather.

* * *

Morty’s first breakthrough happened purely as an accident. It had been December 24th, 2022.

Beth was sleeping, having gotten pass out drunk on wine. Jerry was playing his balloon game but focusing more on his thoughts than the iPad. Summer was watching a heist movie on Netflix. Rick was cleaning up his work area.

It hadn’t been the first time Rick had tidied up since Morty’s death—but this time, as he cleaned, he talked to Morty.

“Morty, my lil’... my lil’ peanut, I-I-I...” Rick trailed off, brushing his calloused hands down the side of the metal shelf in the garage. “I’m so sorry. I-I’m  _so sorry_ —“ Rick turned his head to look around when a glimpse of blue flashed in his peripheral vision.

He watched as Rick picked up a death crystal. He could feel guilt and all the ‘what if’s wafting off of the man.  _What if Morty had had one with him that day,_ Rick thought, despite the numerous deaths that presented themselves as Rick held the crystal.

He slowly exhaled and then chucked the crystal behind him, the crystal shattering upon impact with the hard floor.

The next thing to come into contact with Rick was one of Morty’s inventions, one that the boy had, surprisingly, come up with on his own. And as Rick stared at the item’s incomplete form— _ it would forever remain incomplete _ —Morty remembered first making it like it had been yesterday.

Rick’s tears fell down his face and onto the visor of the invention. Morty tried to avert his eyes, focusing on the many empty bottles—of which had once contained alcohol—under Rick’s desk. The overhead lighting of the garage casts light upon the rims, causing a shine to occur. Morty peered into the glass object, trying to find meaning in the reflective glass that held no reflection of Morty despite him being right in front of it.

A crash brought Morty back to reality.

Morty looked back to see his almost finished invention broken into shards on the concrete before Rick’s feet.

Morty’s heart seized up. Rick glanced at the projects he and Morty had started together. Morty watched, transfixed, as the elder smashed the rest. The man christened the walls and workbench with the news of Morty’s death and afterward, he stood in the middle of the garage among gears, sparking wires, and glass. Rick stood in the wreckage, like a lone warrior standing upon his fallen brethren.

It had been then that, in every shard and smashed mechanical part, in every teardrop that parted with Rick’s face, Morty revealed himself. Rick glanced down and around him, his eyes roaming across the room. Wild, frenzied, desperate. It was only for a held breath, and it was a split second before Morty was gone again.

Rick was quiet for a moment, his face betraying no emotion. And then suddenly, the man abruptly left the room. Morty followed behind lithely, though no one could see him anyway.

Rick climbed the stairs and took the few steps it took to get to Morty’s bedroom door. 

No one had entered it. Not since his death.

Morty knew what the man had been planning to do; punch a hole through the door, topple the bookshelf over, tear the many posters in Morty’s room down, but instead Rick fell against Morty’s bed, sobbing so hard that it shook in Morty’s garden. While Morty stabilized himself in his heaven, Rick grasped at Morty’s cadet grey sheets, balling them up in his hands.

He could still smell Morty’s scent. It was ambrosial to Rick, the smell a cocktail of cinnamon, vanilla, and mint, all at once.

Morty closed his eyes and willed himself away from the situation. Instead of finding himself in his gazebo, he was sat in the sand of his oceanic heaven.

Licking his lips and staring out into the ocean, Morty could swear that, among the sea brine in the breeze, he could taste the remnants of Rick’s salty tears trailing down his own face.

If Morty had still had a heartbeat, it surely would’ve been bestilled by now.

* * *

In the hours after Morty was murdered, while Beth had called the police and Summer had informed all her friends and everyone she knew of Morty’s AWOL, Dylan had reflected over what he’d done as he dragged sticks—the same ones that had once made up the fort he’d made to lure Morty into—away from their pile on the forest clearing and further along into the forest where it would be less suspicious to find a cluster of sticks. After he’d finished clearing up all of the evidence (to Dylan’s knowledge) of Morty’s murder, he lifted the dead boy’s body parts into his arms and carefully stuffed him in a sack. Morty had turned green from where he had been watching in heaven, watching Dylan treat Morty’s corpse like the resting form of one’s lover; it was sweet and sensual.

Dylan passed by Jessica’s house, where she had been having the nightmare that she would speak of the very next morning. Dylan had passed by Mr. Benson’s house, where the elderly paraplegic man was about to head in for the night, only slightly startled by the sound of something brushing up against the siding of his house—the sound had been Dylan tripping over a hose which caused Morty’s body bag to hit the side of the house roughly.

Morty was carried back to the other boy’s house, where Dylan’s parents were gone for the week, and Morty watched in abject horror as Dylan jerked off to the memory of raping Morty, killing him, and then proceeding to mutilate his dead body. Morty was surprised that he hadn’t thrown up.

Morty’s blood seeped out of the bag his body was contained in, creating a stain that wouldn’t ever come out of Dylan’s carpeting; the day before his parents returned home, Morty watched Dylan buy a rug to cover up Morty’s blood. And if anyone asked, having lifted up the rug for some reason or another, Dylan would calmly say it was wine from the time he stole it from his mom’s cabinet to get drunk once and the subject would be dropped. No one would even consider that an eighteen-year-old—seventeen at the time of Morty’s murder—had killed Morty Smith.

Dylan came with a deep moan, something that startled Morty out of his stupor caused by seeing his body. There were a few seconds where Dylan laid in a bed of blood and cum, staring up blankly at his room’s ceiling before he got up. He moved to the bathroom connected to his bedroom after a moment and began to peel off his shirt as the hot water in the shower began to run.

As Dylan scoured himself in the hot water of his shower, his movements were calm and measured. He felt a calm flood him. The bathroom was dark, no lights had been turned on, and he let the remains of Morty’s blood wash away and he went back to thinking of the dead boy.

_ Morty’s muffled scream in his ear. _

_ Beads of delicious, ruby-red blood spouting from the split skin of Morty’s slit neck like a garden hose. _

_ Morty’s green eyes going dull, his gargled breaths becoming more and more labored and desperate, intense coughing forcing the boy’s oh so bright eyes to be squeezed shut. _

Dylan shivered under the heat of his shower, a burning sense of pleasure creating goosebumps to rise all along his arms and legs.

He began to palm his steadily building erection, and this time, Morty  _did_ throw up.

* * *

The next morning, at 4:30, Dylan Buford carried the sack that contained Morty into the backseat of his car.

His plan was to drive out to Alki beach and dump Morty’s body out to the sea.

So Dylan drove fifteen and a half miles to the beach, enjoying the irenic drive down to the sea. In his car, Christmas music played, and in the backseat, at every stop, Morty’s body parts in the bag jolted.

The feeling of joy was completely selcouth to Dylan—he’d never killed a human before, had only killed his neighbors’ pets. The experience was completely new to Dylan, and, to Morty’s immense repugnance,  _exhilarating_ to the teenager.

When the car came to a stop, Dylan got out of the driver’s seat and began to pick Morty up. The sun still wasn’t out, probably wouldn’t be for another two hours, so Dylan had nothing to worry about. He could take his time.

But he wouldn’t. As much as Dylan  _loved_ taking Morty’s dismembered limbs out from the bag and admiring them, he had to dispose of the body immediately. 

Dylan had rented a boat for the day—he had gotten his boat license when he was sixteen, per request of his naturally redneck father, and never had he appreciated the fact more than he did then.

Dylan rode the boat out into the ocean, the lumpy bag containing Morty tossed to the side. As soon as Dylan was 30 miles out past the shoreline, he slowed the boat until it came to a stop and then stood up. The water was deep here, deep enough for Morty’s body to be dropped there without any interference from the police.

Dylan smiled as he bent over to untie the bag containing Morty.

“There there, love,” Dylan said as if he was comforting a lover. The grin on his face was unsettling as he took out Morty’s arms, legs, and torso. He traced Morty’s grey with death face with his eyes and cupped Morty’s cheek in his hand. “Everything will be alright, Morty...”

Morty wanted to look away, wanted to never come back to viewing Dylan, but he...he couldn’t. He had to know of his fate.

So Morty watched Dylan drop his body parts into the water one at a time, watching his body slowly sink to the ocean floor.

After a minute, Dylan turned back to his boat’s steering wheel and began his descent back home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few awkward proceedings and stumbled accusations are really what make up a Christmas day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. hello lovelies... sorry for the incredibly delayed chapter. the initial reason for my delay is due to my father suffering a stroke on the 12th of february. that was just, at the time, a minor setback. he’s okay, in case anyone was wondering, and in the time it’s taken for me to write this chapter, he’s gotten out of the hospital, has started physical therapy, and is expected to make a full recovery. yayyyyy.
> 
> but then, COVID-19 just _had_ to become a pandemic. i guess with being trapped inside i would be given more time to write? so hopefully i’ll get a few more chapters out while i’m quarantined and have got nothing better to do (because all of my classes are cancelled). so yeah. 
> 
> this has been an incredibly shitty year.
> 
> here’s the chapter...
> 
> btw, no main TWs this chapter other than grieving. happy reading.

  
_Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past._  
  
Morty had stumbled across that word once while he had been reading a book, and it had stuck with him. He hadn’t truly understood the word, not its true meaning, until he had found himself standing at heaven’s gates. He’d felt the full force of the word when he realized that never again would he get to relive so many things that he had thought were so trivial, things that had never impacted him before his death. Like walking through the front door after a long day of school, the clatter of cutlery against plates at mealtimes, the background noises coming from the Tv as he played video games on his 3DS.  
  
Things such as those small mementos had made Morty appreciate the meaninglessness drift of the life he’d possessed—unbeknownst to him, of course.  
  
Now, it tore Morty down to the center of his core to think about the fact that he’d lost his most important item—his precious life.

* * *

On the day before Christmas, Rick interacted with Dylan.  
  
It was right after Rick’s breakdown in Morty’s room and the old man had taken a walk to calm his jittery nerves. He didn’t like being overly emotional, never had, and had hoped that a walk by himself—outside of the environment of which _everything_ he laid eyes on reminded him of Morty—would help him collect his depressive thoughts.  
  
Dylan Buford, or as Rick knew of him, the kid who lived next to the Smiths and who Summer had had a massive crush on, was sitting on the back of his truck, smoking a cigarette when Rick walked by his house. The two made eye contact, and Dylan, whose eyes widened in fear for a split second, hopped off of his truck, stamping the cigarette bud under his shoes while he did so, and walked over to Rick.  
  
Rick grumbled at the unwanted attention, having intended on making a brisk walk through the neighborhood to take his mind off of certain matters. The fact that an annoying, nagging neighbor was about to talk to him made his bad mood increase.  
  
Dylan stuffed his hands inside his coat pocket. The gesture that Dylan made as he approached Rick was relatively normal—it was cold, 22°, cold enough to warrant snowfall, and Dylan’s hands could’ve been cold and in need of being warmed up—but Morty knew the truth. Dylan was nervous to be in Rick’s presence, had been nervous during all of his limited encounters with the Smiths since he killed Morty, and he was hiding the way he was wringing his hands by stuffing them into his coat.  


“Mr. Sanchez, right? Morty’s grandpa?” Dylan said, skillfully hiding his true emotions underneath a nearly flawless façade. “I’ve heard the news. I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”  
  
Rick glared at the kid. He’d come outside to get away from Morty’s demise, not to be drowned in the reality of it. He chose not to say anything—the elder didn’t know if he even could; there was what felt to be a rock perched in his throat, blocking his airways and sitting in his vocal cords.  
  
Dylan shuffled his feet and there was a moment of quiet.   
  
As the silence stretched on, Morty realized that Rick was beginning to notice some of Dylan’s mannerisms. While he’d seen the teen before, met him once, even, he’d normally worn a glazed-over look on his face, a look of pure, unsettling indifference. Now though, as Rick stood in front of the man, he avoided all eye contact, ducking his head to keep from Rick getting more than a glimpse of his face. The idiosyncrasies that he was displaying made Rick narrow his eyes in distrust.   
  
He had no idea what it was, but something about Dylan Buford—the seemingly normal, unsuspecting teenager—made Rick’s hair stand on edge. Unease crept over Rick in an icy chill, like cold, recently dunked in ice-water hands massaging Rick’s shoulders. Morty wanted to confirm his lover’s fears, his written in bone suspicions. The boy wanted nothing more than to yell out “Yes!” and have the word not just echo within the void that was Purgatory, a place that wasn’t quite the afterlife and stood between the living and the dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But then, it began to snow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Both Rick and Dylan peered up at the sky with wonder and surprise. It was the first snow since Morty’s death and that fact was not lost on Rick.  
  
Rick Sanchez was a man of science—he had no business believing in the afterlife, and everything he’d studied and experienced had seemed to paint the road to his conclusion that life after death was nonexistent. But during the past week and a half that followed his grandson’s death, so many inexplicable things had happened to him that at this point, it seemed absurd to say that there was no afterlife. That maybe...  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Rick mumbled under his breath, inaudible enough that Dylan couldn’t hear it.  
  
And then for the first time since their encounter with one another, Dylan met Rick’s eyes, held them, but did not speak. Morty could hear the pounding heart that thudded in Dylan’s chest, and he was made aware of the fact that Dylan knew that Rick was suspecting he’d had some part in Morty’s death.   
  
The snow was falling, wafting down on the two of them.  
  
After a second more of being trapped in Rick’s steely gaze, Dylan croaked out, “I should be getting back inside,” and he made the retreat back to his front door.   
  
However, Rick grabbed the man’s wrist as he was leaving. Dylan turned back around.   
  
“You... you little bastard,” Rick growled, baring his teeth. His hands itched for his ray gun that was laying temptingly inside of his lab coat but he resisted.  
  
Dylan looked up at him with a fearful glance and as he tugged at his arm, Rick begrudgingly let go.  
  
Rick watched as the kid ran inside, leaving the old man to be left amid a blanket of snow.   
  
And Morty watched everything unfurl, his heart aching as he stood in a sea of bright flower petals.

* * *

Morty’s paternal grandparents arrived to visit the Smith-Sanchez family on Christmas Eve, parking in the driveway just a few minutes before Rick returned home from his walk.  
  
Jerry and Summer had walked out of the house to help the elders carry their bags into the house.  
  
Morty did a quick headcount as his father and sister loaded his grandparents’ luggage into the house, and he soon noticed that his grandma’s lover, Jacob, wasn’t present. To Morty’s relief at not having to have his question go unanswered, it was something that Summer asked about as soon as the bags were all in the house.  
  
“Oh,” Joyce said, shrugging off her coat. The lady shared a glance with her husband—the glance they exchanged came across as sorrowful. “Well... Jacob said that he didn’t want to impose, what with the family’s... _grief_ and all.” She paused on the word ‘grief’ as though the word was foreign on her tongue.  
  
Morty winced from where he watched. The room had become so silent and uncomfortable that Morty was almost glad that Rick coming back in from his walk broke through the quiet.  
  
“Whose—“ Rick paused in the middle of his sentence. Morty knew that the man had been about to ask whose car was out front of the house but his question had been answered the moment he entered the room and saw his in-laws. “O-oh. Uh...hello Joyce... Leonard,” Rick acknowledged.  
  
The couple nodded in greeting. Leonard turned to Jerry before the silence could become awkward yet again. “Now, son, where would you like for us to put our bags?”  
  
Jerry cleared his throat, jerking his hand towards the hallway that held both Rick’s room and Jerry’s man cave. “Uh... There’s a guest room down that hallway. Summer, why don’t you bring their luggage down there?”  
  
Summer grumbled irritably but complied. She dragged the bags behind her and left to go to the aforementioned room.  
  
Morty only stayed for a second more. The house had always been extremely awkward when he watched from above. It was either that it had always been this awkward and Morty just hadn’t picked up on it while he was alive or it had something to do with the fact that there was one less life in the household and it shook everyone to their limit, prohibiting them from making conversation as they had before.  
  
Morty didn’t know which one he would’ve preferred to be the case.

* * *

Every day, Morty watched his mother get up. She would sleep peacefully, if only because of the high amounts of alcohol she had consumed. Then, as she woke, it was as if everything was slightly off-kilter. Morty knew that her head would ache and he watched as she’d kick herself free from the sheets that would always tangle up with her legs during sleep. With only a subtle movement, Beth would stand, rising out of bed, and immediately hear the clinking of wine glasses as she stood. She squinted, even though the drapes were closed, and her dry mouth would be sticky with thick saliva, and sometimes her chapped lips would be coated in vomit.  
  
Then, on days she didn’t drink... well, those were now few and far in between.  
  
It always pained Morty to watch his mom throw any semblance of sobriety to the wind. It had always pained him, in fact, but the slight weight on his shoulders that had been there when he was alive had now been altered to a clanging of his heart as she lost herself in her drinking.  
  
One day, on the Friday before Christmas, Summer had entered the house with a slamming door, and Beth had been glad for the noise. The slamming door had brought a strange clarity and had reached into her intoxication induced wasteland and yanked her out of it, bringing her rushing back to the present, out of her alcohol-addled world where the time was slightly slowed and the responses were delayed and messy.  
  
She‘d then become considerably less drunk for the night and had even cooked the family a meal. She hadn’t cooked a necessarily edible meal—Beth was still inebriated after all, despite how surprisingly put-together she was—but it was a meal nonetheless.  
  
However, the day after that, on Christmas Eve, she’d let loose. She drank her entire supply of wine dry and had even stolen some of her father’s booze to keep her going.   
  
Which was why, just in the room above the living room—where all of Morty’s family was sitting, excluding Beth—Beth puked out her guts into the cold, porcelain throne. The remaining family could indeed hear her loud and clear.  
  
No one commented on it.

* * *

After the sound of Beth’s retching had filled the room, Summer unexpectedly ran out of the room and up the stairs, undoubtedly to her bedroom. Everyone’s eyes—including Morty’s—followed her retreating form with surprise. The whole family was shocked by her nonverbal outburst.  
  
“I...” Jerry said hesitantly. “Should go... check on her?”  
  
Jerry looked to everyone expectantly, almost as if asking for their permission to do so. No one said anything in response so Jerry left the room, and Morty followed behind him.  
  
The two went up the stairs, Jerry as a solid figure composed of atoms, Morty trailing behind him as essentially nothing (no scientific term could even begin to describe what form Morty took) and in only a few seconds, they stood outside Summer’s closed door.  
  
Jerry timidly knocked on the door. “Summer,” the man said.  
  
No answer was given.  
  
“Er... can I come in—sweetie?” It was clear to even the dullest that Jerry was inexperienced at this sort of thing, having usually left the matter to his wife—who was infinitely more experienced than Jerry with such emotional outbreaks—or even to his son—who was skilled in the subject of empathy. However, seeing as his wife was incredibly drunk, probably passed out on the toilet, and his son lived no longer, he was left to fend for himself.  
  
“Fuck off!” came the irritated answer that was shouted from within Summer’s room.  
  
Jerry grimaced. “Summer, _please_ ,” he begged. “Don’t act like this...”  
  
“I said to go the fuck away, Dad!”  
  
Jerry eyed the door for a second, quickly becoming weary, and let out a deep sigh before pressing his forehead against the hard slab of wood that separated him and his daughter, keeping them at an arms reach that seemed to stretch on for miles. The wood was cool against the man’s head, chilly enough to almost soothe the pounding headache that had developed behind his eyes over the past nine days—the longest nine days of his life.  
  
Jerry seemed to finally catch some sense for once because he didn’t press on his request until he’d given Summer a few minutes to calm herself. “ _Summer_ ,” he tried again. “Could you please consider letting me in?”  
  
There was no sound again, and for a second Jerry was going to give her an even longer time to cool off, but he soon heard the squeaking of Summer moving to get off of her bed and the soft, apprehensive footfalls that approached the door as she crept towards it.  
  
She stood at it for a while and Morty knew that she was deciding whether she would unlock it or not. Eventually, she did, and Jerry moved away from the door, trying to ease his expression into something hopefully comforting.  
  
“ _What_.” Summer spat out. Her face was set to look carved out of stone with tension.   
  
“I just... wanted to know how you are.” Jerry shrugged.  
  
Summer narrowed her eyes. “I want to be alone,” she said plainly. “I told you to fuck off. You heard that, right? Or are you too fucking idiotic to understand what that means, _Jerry_?”  
  
Jerry winced. He felt more hurt by the bitter use of his first name than the blow towards his intelligence. “Summer... you don’t mean that...”  
  
Summer laughed bitterly. “Oh, I don’t, do I? You see, I don’t think you have the fucking right to say what I do and do not mean.”  
  
Jerry sighed and bit his lip. “I screwed up here... I’m sorry, I admit it.”  
  
Summer fixed him with a blank stare that made Jerry’s mouth go dry. He’d already been having a hard enough problem with consoling himself, but now he had to also console his daughter? A daughter that, additionally, didn’t _consent_ to being consoled?  
  
“Dad. I told you that I want to be alone,” Summer repeated. She sounded slightly less callous in this revision of the sentence, but it did nothing to make Jerry want to leave her alone.  
  
However, Jerry’s shoulders slumped as he realized he could do nothing to help with his daughter’s pissed off attitude. “I... I’ll leave you to it, then.”  
  
Summer didn’t spare him another look as she moved to close the door yet again, the sound of the lock echoing through the door and into the hallway to bounce around mockingly in Jerry’s head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Summer returned downstairs in time for the Christmas Eve dinner—the dinner that had been prepared earlier that day—her expression blank like nothing had happened in the few hours leading up to the meal.

* * *

After the painfully awkward dinner, Rick stepped into the garage and hesitantly placed a call to Frederick Calvin.  
  
“Rick?” Calvin said. The police had become used to seeing the scientist’s phone number.   
  
“Calvin,” Rick greeted gruffly.  
  
Ever since Calvin broke the news concerning Morty, Rick had become a lot more active in the case, reluctantly helping out with certain things that he couldn’t do alone. It had been a low-blow to Rick’s gargantuan ego, but if it took Rick swallowing his pride to get justice for his grandson, he would do it any day.  
  
“What can I help you with, Rick?” Calvin asked.   
  
“I-I might be acting f-fuckin’—fucking irrational as hell, but honestly, after everything that’s happened to me this week...” Rick trailed off, moving to sit down at his desk. He lifted a nearby bottle of rum and practically chugged it. Morty knew he did so because the only thing that would allow Rick to voice his apparent delusions would be a lot of alcohol.  
  
“Rick?”  
  
Rick wiped the excess liquid on the sleeve of his coat. “‘M h-here...”  
  
“...Yes, but you were saying?”  
  
Rick shook his head. “Right.” Morty watched Rick shift to rest the phone between his ear and shoulder, leaning back in his chair. “I-I think—t-this sounds fuckin’ nuts too, but you gotta... gotta take my word for it, ‘kay, Calvin?” Calvin hummed in response and Rick continued. “I think... There’s a pretty suspicious lookin’ kid in the neighborhood, s-seems really out of it lately.” Rick stared down at the bottle of rum still held in his hands. He traced the lip of the thing lightly with his thumb. “‘M thinking he has something to do with M-Morty.”  
  
There was a pause on the other line, but Morty knew that it was only from surprise. “A kid, you say?”  
  
“Mhm,” Rick responded, closing his eyes. The man’s mind, what with the additional alcohol he’d ingested before chugging that bottle of rum, was already becoming sluggish with intoxication.   
  
“Well... okay, then. If you say so,” Calvin said questioningly. Even in Rick’s drunk state, he could hear the tone of suspicion that was prominent in the man’s words. “If you would, tell me who it is and why you think this—“  
  
Rick cut him off. “L-l-look,” Rick slurred; the alcohol had kicked in surprisingly fast, but perhaps that was to be expected when Rick had just chugged an entire bottle of rum all at once. “I-I know it sounds—sounds stupid...but you gotta believe me—“  
  
“Rick,” Calvin exhaled, “you have to tell me who it is. And I promise that it won’t sound stupid.”  
  
Rick sat in his chair, contemplating everything. “Okay,” he said shakily, after a moment. “T-the kid’s name is Dylan Buford. He’s—he’s a neighbor. H-h-he’s been pretty off the rails lately too, if you know what I’m saying,” Rick said.   
  
Rick told Calvin about his suspicions, how Dylan had been avoiding the Smiths, how out of character he’d been, and finally, _finally_ ; Rick told him about the snow. And even though he didn’t tell Calvin about all of the odd and craze-inducing supernatural things that had been happening to the man, he certainly hinted towards it, something that Morty supposed was better than nothing.  
  
“Okay,” Calvin said, right as Rick had finished. The man, the one that was all the way across town, still working in his office although it was seven P.M. on Christmas Eve, jotted down everything that Rick had said, even the unnecessary parts where Rick had trailed off and began talking about other and completely different matters. “I’ll go over there some time and check everything out.”  
  
And then Rick did something that he never did, even if it was insincere—he thanked the man on the other side of the phone. “...T-thank you,” Rick breathed.  
  
Calvin was shocked, just as anyone who knew the man would be. But then, he smiled, saying nothing before he hung up.

* * *

Morty used to have a high pitched, ugly laugh that had never felt quite right. It was the laugh he used when there was a quick quip that had been shot out like a bullet from a gun, and Morty’s laugh was the smolder that emitted from the gun afterward. Rick used to mock the hell out of it, but Morty learned soon in heaven that his grandfather had always been fond of it, even if it had grated on the old man’s fragile nerves sometimes.  
  
On the subject of things Morty hadn’t liked, when he reached heaven, he didn’t regard everything that had happened to him in his life with the burning sense of longing he did to other things.  
  
He knew that he hadn’t 100% loved his life. But he’d liked it, at the very least. Had liked it enough to prefer its shitty premise over any of his unlimited wants being granted in the great above, surprisingly. Though, his opinion on his once abysmal life had certainly improved once he and Rick had finally ignored the last remaining shreds of their planetary mindsets and finally intertwined, taking in understanding for each other’s needs and coming together to fulfill them. Grandfather and grandson united together in unholy fellowship.   
  
Nonetheless, love wasn’t a realistic cure. His life still hadn’t been perfect. He had been young, incredibly young, and yet he’d come across heinous acts that would make even the most deranged’s toes curl. He’d seen things that he shouldn’t have, heard things that he could’ve lived without having heard, and especially survived things that Death should’ve made illegal for him to do so.  
  
So while he’d loved his family deeply, appreciated certain aspects of his life, and even wished to be back among the existing walks of life, there were endless amounts of things Morty had been unhappy with.   
  
However, the wound was still fresh and had the possibility of becoming infected if not treated correctly, but Morty would do just about anything to cauterize it.

* * *

On Christmas Day, Morty’s family would have been more comfortable in the afterlife. In Morty’s heaven, Christmas was widely ignored. There was never any sign that anything had changed, but there were some nicer than normal greetings amongst one another.  
  
That Christmas, mimicking the one before it, Ethan came to the house per Summer’s request. He showed up on the front step, wearing an old hoodie and black jeans. His greeting, when Jerry opened the door, was also nicer than normal.  
  
“Hello, Mr. Smith,” Ethan said. He tried not to let ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ slip past his lips, doing all that Summer had advised him to do in a text message. “May I see Summer for a second?”  
  
Jerry looked at Ethan in questioning. It had been only last year that this boy in front of him had broken his daughter’s heart, so he'd heard. Yet, he said yes and went to fetch the aforementioned girl.  
  
“Ethan,” Summer said when she came to the door, smiles and all, “you came!”  
  
Ethan smiled and held out his hand. Summer took it and stepped forward, coming out to stand on the front step with the boy. “Of course I did,” he replied. He pushed back a stray strand of strawberry blonde hair out of Summer’s eyes.   
  
The moment was so cliché, so typical for teenage love...and yet it still made Morty long for everything he missed.  
  
“Oh,” Ethan’s eyes lit up. He reached around himself, to dig around in his backpack. He grasped something and exited the bag. “I brought something for you,” he grinned.  
  
He pressed a small, comically horribly wrapped box into the open palm of Summer’s hand.  
  
Summer’s brown eyes—eyes inherited from her father—trailed up to Ethan’s slate-blue eyes. A million thoughts raced through her head as she fingered the badly wrapped gift that sat in her hand.   
  
Morty could see it happening in front of him: His sister’s mind was knotting itself in tangled loops. She had been working hard to keep everything out if her mind, but Ethan had slipped through the cracks. Ethan, the boy who had left and had come back.  
  
“You should open it,” Ethan said.  
  
Summer nodded and looked down to start unwrapping the gift. It didn’t take much—to mention once more, it was poorly wrapped, and it only took a tug to have everything come undone.  
  
Once opened, Summer could see it all. A necklace of fine gold with a turquoise gem interwoven into the chain winked back up at her.  
  
Ethan reached out a hand and cupped Sumer’s cheek. He gently tilted her head upwards to look at him.  
  
“Do you like it?” He breathed.  
  
Summer blushed; Morty’s face turned red up in heaven from where he watched.  
  
And then suddenly, Summer forgot about everything—she forgot about her alcoholic grandfather and mother, her idler of a father, and especially, _especially_ , she forgot about her dead baby brother.  
  
All she knew was that Ethan was inching closer to her and she was liking it. She closed the distance and it was like every good emotion had pooled into her stomach like a chocolate fountain.  
  
And with all of the positivity, with all of the relief, hope, and clarity Summer was experiencing, Morty Smith felt like he could be brought back to life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lamentation simply will not give back what has been stolen from you. Tears may dry, but the pain will still drown.

Only a few days before winter break was over, there was a knock on the door followed by a ringing of the doorbell.

Summer who, at the time, had been sitting on the couch, got up to open the door. “I’ve got it!” she hollered through the house, even though she doubted that anyone would’ve gone to answer the door other than her. Perhaps it was just out of instinct.

Summer opened the door, her eyebrows raising in surprise upon seeing who it was. “Jessica?”

Jessica smiled shyly and shuffled her feet. She had felt awkward at the notion of visiting the Smiths in general, but under the current situation, it was nothing compared to the previous thought of doing so. “Hi, Summer...”

Summer leaned against the door, nodding slowly. “Uh,” Summer said, her mind still racing in its attempt to try to gather reasons for why Jessica was standing at her front door. “...What’s up? Not to sound rude, but... well, why are you here?”

Jessica bit her lip—that had been the exact question she hadn’t wanted to receive. The reason for that was she didn’t really know. She voiced as much to Summer, and the older redhead let out an amused huff. 

“Well, why don’t you come in? My dad just bought some hot cocoa at the grocery store if you want some,” Summer offered, opening the door wider, an invitation for Jessica to come in.

“Erm... sure. Why not?” Jessica said, more as a means to reassure herself. 

Feeling on edge, Jessica followed Summer into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you sit down in the living room?” Summer addressed Jessica. “It’s more comfortable than in here and the hot chocolate won’t take long.”

Jessica shrugged and moved into the living room, sitting down on the couch. The Tv, which was playing some sort of channel that Jessica had never so much as seen before, had these alien-like creatures talking on a perfectly normal-looking talk show. 

“Huh,” Jessica said to herself, thoroughly intrigued by the show. The show kept her interest for a while before it moved into a commercial break. 

She then took the chance to look around. The house, from her very limited memory of having seen it before, hadn’t appeared to change all too much, and the only changes were subtle, leaving Jessica to question if anything had even changed or if she was just making things up.

Her focus shifted to the Christmas tree that was still set up in the corner of the Smith’s living room. There were still presents underneath the tree, despite the date being the 29th. Jessica stood up from her spot on the couch, moving to go see who the gifts were for. Upon reaching the tree, Jessica crouched down to get a closer view of the presents. 

She picked up the gift-tag to one of the presents and it read:

To: Morty

From: Rick

Jessica’s breath stilted for a moment before she heard Summer coming into the room with their drinks. Like she’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Jessica stood up quickly, spinning around on spot to face Summer, no doubt looking guilty as hell while doing so.

“...What were you doing?” Summer asked, narrowing her eyes. She stood there with one hip cocked to the side, holding the two mugs of hot chocolate. 

“Uh, nothing!” Jessica said shrilly, plastering a fake smile to her face.

Summer’s eyes, if possible, narrowed even more. Peering around Jessica’s body to see what she was standing in front of, Summer’s expression dimmed. 

“Oh,” the older girl said, dejectedly setting down the two cups onto the coffee table. Summer crossed her arms, and Morty could feel the insecurity washing off of her in waves. “Are you just here to talk about Morty?”

Jessica’s eyes widened. “No! God no, I just wanted to be... ugh, this sounds weird.” Jessica folded her arms as well, mimicking Summer.

Summer didn’t say anything—she just watched Jessica with an intense look. 

Jessica sighed. “I just... want to be your friend.”

Morty could tell that Summer was taken aback by Jessica’s statement. As a result, the glare sent the younger girl’s way was dialed back a bit. “Explain.”

“I’ve seen you around school—you seem...sad, but you also look like you’re distancing yourself from everyone. And...” Jessica paused, trying to come up with the right things to say, “I know how you feel, Summer. I’m doing the same thing, really. Things have been, for lack of a better word, insanely fucked up this month. But maybe it would benefit both of us to be friends?”

Silence spread throughout the room before Summer moved to sit on the couch, a sigh escaping her as she relaxed into the couch cushions. “Okay.”

Jessica smiled in turn. She stood for a second before she too moved to sit down, right beside Summer. 

The two girls talked for a while. At first, their interaction was awkward, strained—but then they grew into it. They started up a conversation about their interests and mindsets, talked about school and what they’ve done over Christmas break.

And then… They talked about Morty.

“It’s just...so weird,” Jessica said. “I mean, we were practically in the same class as one another since, like, _the second grade_ but seemingly the day your grandpa came around was the first time I’d even spared him a thought…”

“Wow,” Summer said. Morty could tell that the girl was trying to stay strong as she conversed about the topic of her dead brother, but if you looked closely at her behavior, you could see slight cracks in her façade. “Y’know he’s had a crush on you since, like, fifth grade, right?”

Jessica laughed ever so slightly at that. “Really? For that long? I knew he’d liked me but I had no idea that he’d liked me for such a long time.”

Summer gave a wistful smile. “Yeah…”

A beat passed by before Jessica cocked her head towards the gifts that remained under the tree. “So… What’s up with those.”

Summer let out a shaky sigh. She lifted the glass of hot cocoa to her lips and drained the last of it before she answered. “Well… all of those were bought before… You know.” Summer closed her eyes and leaned into the sofa cushions behind her. Morty could sense her stress and he willed for it to go away. 

“Yeah…” Jessica said softly, peering down at the presents with a strange light in her eyes, “...I know…”

* * *

Before Jessica left the house for the day, she stopped by the garage, remembering the way to get there from Morty showing her around in the garage. It felt like years had passed since their exchange in the garage had occurred, the very same one that had been interrupted by Squanchy, but in reality, it hadn’t even been a year since it happened.

She knocked on the door before going in there, pressing her ear up against the door. She couldn’t hear anything and only Morty knew that that was because Rick wasn’t _doing_ anything. 

A growl could be heard from outside the garage before Rick answered back. “Who’s there and what the fuck do you w-want?” He snarled, yelling through the door.

“Uh… It’s Jessica!”

That got the old man going. He stood up from his table, marching over to the door. “Jessica?” He opened it and, sure enough, came face to face with his grandson’s old crush.

“I—w-what the hell are you doing here?” Rick asked her in suspicion. 

Before Jessica could explain herself, Rick waved her off, a disinterested look on his face. “N-no, nevermind, I don’t gi—URP—ve a shit.” Rick crossed his arms, looking down at her with a glare. “Now, if you excuse me, I have _important stuff_ that needs to be done.”

The garage door slammed in her face, and though their interaction was short and incredibly rude, Jessica was relieved. She hadn’t so much as seen any sign of life coming from the old man and had been scared for him. She remembered how the man had acted last year when Morty had run off to become a stockbroker in New York—he’d kept drunk dialing her and was just, in general, extremely depressed. She had only imagined what Morty’s actual death had done to the man.

However, now that Jessica knew that Rick was alive and doing _somewhat_ well, Jessica could finally make peace with herself in the time being. 

* * *

It was her marriage that kept Beth Smith under the influence of poisonous alcohol. It was waking up next to her oaf of a husband every morning that made her want to stock up on the wine during her next visit to the grocery store. It was Jerry Smith who caused all of her addictions.

In reality, that wasn’t true. It was Beth’s traitorous mind that actually made her creep down the stairs in search of more liquid nullifier. It was all of the tragedies she’d faced in life that made her drain every ounce of wine from the recesses of her wine bottle. It was the long line of addicts that preceded her that forced her to continue with her addictions.

That day, it had been the amount of abandoned wine bottles and glasses that were slowly growing amongst her bedside that made her venture out of her bedroom. She stayed out on the balcony that was connected to her room, lounging in her chair. But perhaps ‘lounging’ wasn’t the right word for what she was currently doing. No, lounging would imply that she was enjoying her time. Maybe a more accurate word for it would be ‘waiting’. Did she know what she was waiting for? Hell no. But the tension and anticipation that came with waiting was certainly prevalent in what she was doing. 

It was only a longing feeling that kept Beth on her balcony, watching people and cars pass by like nothing in the world had ever impacted them as it had impacted Beth. Every. Single. _Goddamned_. Time.

The urge to do the unspeakable ( _to launch herself off of the_ fucking _balcony and feel as her bones snapped upon making sudden contact with the concrete ground; to moan as blood slowly yet surely drained from her body, leaving her a shriveled up corpse_ _devoid of blood laying on her front lawn where no one and yet everyone all at once would care about her_ ) was present in her mind but she made efforts to restrain herself. 

Jerry.

Summer.

Her dad.

She ran through the lists of people she cared for enough to stay alive. She tried not to run through the lists of people she cared for enough to die.

As the thought of doing the unspeakable neared closer, Beth suddenly threw her glass of wine over the edge of the balcony, watching as the glass shattered when it connected with the ground— _as opposed to yourself, you stupid shitty bitch_ , she thought to herself—and watched with something that was akin to satisfaction as a car soon drove down the street, running over the glass with a satisfying _crunch_. She knew that the tire had probably popped a few holes from running over the glass as it had but Beth couldn’t bring herself to care.

All she could do was sit back in her chair that she sat in and convince herself that she’d done the right thing. 

* * *

The first time Morty shared a bed with Rick—romantically—was a week before Morty’s sophomore year at his high school began. It was right after a draining eleven hours spent on an extremely hostile planet. Rick had wanted to go there because of a certain special type of bacteria cell, one that could help make Rick create all sorts of things that went way over Morty’s head. By the end of their trip, however, they’d come out not only empty-handed, but also wounded, charred, and incredibly fatigued.

When they’d finally found a slight cease in fire, Rick had stumbled through a portal that led into the garage, holding Morty by the back of his, by then, ruined yellow T-shirt.

As soon as they crossed through the portal, the portal promptly deactivating afterward, Rick pulled Morty tightly to his chest and Morty had allowed it. They both breathed in the gun-powdery scent of one another and held on as tight as they could.

Rick ran a hand through Morty’s singed curls and Morty looked up at him, his green eyes still widened with shock from the ordeal he’d just witnessed, and he opened his mouth to speak. “Y-you kinda stink, Rick,” Morty murmured.

Rick stopped his hand midway through Morty’s hair and stared the boy down, his left brow arched. “Oh yeah? Hate to break it to you, M-Morty, but you don’t smell all that great yourself.”

Morty cracked a small smile, as well as an ugly and wheezy laugh—the same one that Morty hated and Rick secretly had loved—and Rick ruffled Morty’s hair. “C’mon, kiddo,” Rick said, peering down at Morty fondly. “We can get our smelly asses a shower in the morning.” Rick glanced out of the corner of his eye to the window on the garage and Morty followed his gaze; the sky was stained black with nighttime. “It’s probably time to get to bed, anyways.”

“Yeah, I-I guess...” Morty said. Though, with all of the action and fear Morty had experienced that day, he felt unwilling to leave the man’s protecting side.

Rick softly nudged Morty expectantly, almost as if telling him to make his way to his bedroom then. Morty bit his lip and reluctantly broke away from Rick’s side. 

“Uhh, actually, Rick, I...” Morty trailed off. He was wanting to tell his grandfather that he wanted to sleep with him but without having it come across as if he wanted to fuck the man—which isn’t to say that he _didn’t._ Oh, no. He _definitely_ did. Just not then. They’d only began their timid relationship at the beginning of that summer, and Morty wanted to take things slow. And for once, Rick had actually agreed with the young boy’s view on taking things slow.

_“I don’t wanna r-ruin you too much, kid,” Rick had said after Morty had told him what he wanted in their relationship. “You’re too good. We won’t rush it.”_

“Yeah?” Rick asked, breaking Morty out of his reverie. He moved over to his workbench, his back facing Morty as the boy pieced together all that he wanted to say.

“Well, I-I was kind of, y’know, _hoping_ that I could stay with you tonight? In y-your room?” Morty replied. He peered at Rick’s face expectantly, looking for a reaction.

Rick only shrugged, however, and waved his hand about flippantly. “S-sure, but I’m gonna do something here before I go to bed. Why don’t y-you go ahead and go—”

“No!” Morty exclaimed, cutting him off. Morty had spent most of the day in a dark, confined space with bullets aimed at him, only just missing him by a centimeter each time, and to stay in Rick’s room alone was the last thing he wanted to do.

When Rick looked at him in something resembling agitation, Morty repeated himself, only slightly more gentle. “No,” Morty said. “I-I-I don’t want to go. In the dark. A-alone.” He felt like a child, admitting his fear like that, but it was what he felt in the moment.

Rick huffed and ran a hand through his electric blue hair. “Whatever,” Rick sighed, exhaling harshly. “Just wait for me to get done with something here, Morty.”

He muttered several more unintelligible things to himself after that (though, they were quite obviously complaints about Morty) but Morty couldn’t find it in himself to care. Had they been in a relationship at the same time the year before, he probably would have been flat out rejected if he’d so much as asked to share a bed.

A few minutes went by, with Morty sitting perched on a counter near where Rick stood and with said man hunched over his desk, before Rick finally stood from his desk, popping his back and neck all the while, and signaled to Morty that it was time to go to bed.

“C’mon, Morty,” Rick said, and Morty hopped off of the counter and over to Rick’s side.

Rick glanced down at Morty before hurriedly pulling the young boy to his side and pressing a quick un-Rick like kiss to the head before pulling away, moving over to the door as if nothing had just happened between them. Though the way Rick showed love was casual and dismissive, it had always successfully melted Morty’s heart to a gooey mush.

Morty followed Rick out of the garage, through the house, and into Rick’s untidy room. 

The two walked in, Morty slipping off his shoes as soon as he entered, the boy in favor of collapsing right onto the bed, face first.

He heard Rick let out a snort from behind him and he rolled around in the man’s bed to face him. He saw that Rick had followed his lead, taking off his shoes and belt before slithering under the bedsheets with Morty.

“Goodnight, Rick,” Morty said, burrowing his face into Rick’s strong chest.

A comforting hand was brought up to rest at the nape of Morty’s neck. “‘Night, Morty.”

•★•

The rest of the night was hazy due to fatigue that had made the memory go fuzzy like cotton. But what Morty did remember is the warmth, comfort, and pure love that emanated from the sensation of being pressed up securely against his grandfather; Rick’s forever-whiskey scent overwhelming him; soft, quick kisses to Morty’s nose, cheek, and forehead only when Rick thought that Morty was asleep. It was a moment Morty used to recall upon if he couldn’t sleep or if he, even in heaven, grew bored with being on his lonesome. 

It was one of those moments that marked the real Rick apart from his cynical and distant exterior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy easter everyone (if that is something you celebrate) :)
> 
> this chapter was my gift to you all, so i hope you enjoyed reading <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look inside Dylan’s childhood.

For three months leading up to Morty’s death Dylan had dreamed of him. He saw snippets of Morty’s young face every time he closed his eyes. He imagined scenarios between them. Picnics with blue skies overhead. Chaste kisses under the moonlight. Rumpled bedsheets on which their naked bodies rested on.

Morty could look back to when Dylan was a mere child—still seeking comfort from his mother. He could see all of the man’s memories and, sometimes, he did. It was like viewing old-timey movies in movie archives. He quickly grew an obsession with watching Dylan’s memories, trying to find clarity—if nothing else—on why he had been killed. 

From the beginning of Dylan’s life to him being ten or so, Dylan had had a good life. He was an only child living in a middle-to-upper class family in a nice neighborhood. He’d attended private school and had many friends. He had parents who loved him. At first, it had been hard to detect what had caused Dylan to rape and ultimately kill Morty.

And then, it happened.

In summer of 2014, Dylan’s uncle had filed for unemployment. He couldn’t pay rent in the conditions that he had been under, so Dylan’s family invited him to stay there until he could get back on his feet.

In the beginning, everything had been fine. For the first week, Dylan and his uncle had gotten along well. They weren’t close or anything, but they were nice to one another. They goofed around, like nephews and uncles often did.

It was only after a while that things had changed.

Dylan’s uncle would come into his room when other members of the family were gone. It had started out small; he would have the boy undress under the impression that Dylan’s uncle would bathe him (even though Dylan was by then much too old to still be bathed) and the man would stare at him, admiring his nephew’s lathered up body. But then it became much worse. His uncle would forcefully undress him, making the boy engage in sexual acts.

Dylan had been cracking under the fear and anxiety that his situation had been placing on him. His uncle had threatened to do much worse things than what he had been doing to him if he told anybody. So because of this, Dylan kept his mouth shut.

Finally, in the fall of 2014, his uncle moved out. He’d found a job and an apartment a few miles into Seattle and had thus left, leaving Dylan to simper, now perpetually scarred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry that this chapter is so short but the next chapter should be out real soon :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world of misdirection, seeing one right path brings the utmost satisfaction.

On January 3rd, now 2023, Frederick Calvin rode up to the Buford residence in his cop car to inspect Dylan. He had previously gone door-to-door in the neighborhood, nothing had seemed suspicious to him. Michael Benson had been home alone the day it happened and had settled in for an early slumber. Clark and Luise Adson had been out of town for a wedding taking place in Portland—they’d only come back two days later. Gene and Robyn Philips had been out on a date night. And Dylan Buford... well, the kid had said that he had been on his computer all day, in addition to playing video games and watching Tv.

As far as Frederick knew, he had no reason to doubt this.

But Rick had specifically called in ( _while drunk,_ his brain supplied sarcastically) to report this kid. Rick Sanchez was a smart man—according to the man himself, ‘the smartest man in existence’—so who was Frederick to doubt him? Besides, it could only do good. The worst that would happen was that he would waste a few hours interrogating an innocent man and then that would be that. No harm, no foul.

Frederick Calvin walked up to the door and rang the doorbell, stepping back when the door opened.

He was greeted by the face of a woman that he hadn’t seen in his previous visit.

“Oh, can I help you?” she asked. She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. 

Calvin offered up a friendly smile. “I suppose you’re Dylan’s mother, correct?”

The lady nodded, still confused, and Calvin extended a hand. “Hi, I’m officer Frederick Calvin. I’m here to inspect your son Dylan.”

She stared down his hand in contemplation, as if deciding whether to accept it or not. “...Donna Buford,” she said, introducing herself as well. She looked back up to Calvin—whose hand had retreated dejectedly back to his side—and cocked her head. “So what is this about?”

Frederick sighed and launched into an explanation. “Ma’am, I’m sure you’ve heard of the news concerning Morty Smith, right? He went missing on the 15th and hasn’t been seen since.”

Donna Buford let out a small ‘oh’ before she nodded. “God, yes, it’s such a terrible thing to happen. I feel really bad for the family... to loose a child must be horrible... But what does this have to do with Dylan, though?”

Calvin only gave a small shrug. “I’m just making a routine check back around the neighborhood,” he lied. It was critical in these sort of situations to not appear as if you’re singling someone out. It puts suspects at ease and makes it easier to find evidence. “You and your husband were out of town, correct?”

“Yes, we were visiting my mother and father in Wisconsin,” Donna replied. She looked less tense than she had before so his lie had obviously worked. “Why don’t you come in? I was cooling some banana bread just now, would you like some?”

“Ah, yes ma’am,” he said, bowing his head as he walked into the house. He looked around, taking in his environment. There were a few family paintings on the wall that could be seen as soon as he entered. There was a spiral stairway leading up to the second story as well, and two entryways into two other rooms from where he stood. 

“I’ll go get Dylan. Why don’t you go sit in the living room while he comes down, okay?” She smiled at him.

“Of course,” he smiled back.

He went to go sit on an armchair in the living room, observing the room as he sat down. So far, nothing had been suspicious. Though, he’d only been there for three minutes. He still had time.

After a few minutes, Frederick heard footfalls approaching the room. He looked up from where he’d been staring at his hands and saw Dylan approach the doorway.

He offered the boy what he hoped was a kind smile. He gestured to the couch that was sat in front of him. Dylan held his eye contact before moving to sit.

“Hi Dylan,” Calvin greeted. “How’re you doing today?”

Dylan shrugged. “I dunno. Fine, I guess?”

The detective grinned. “Good to hear.”

There was a brief pause before Dylan cleared his throat. “Why’re you here? You’ve already interrogated me?”

Frederick bit his lip, bringing up the lie he’d told the boy’s mother. “I’m doing a routine check on the neighborhood again.”

Dylan only nodded.

Frederick Calvin could see what Rick meant. The boy, though he’d never known him prior to this case, was oddly lacking personality. He supposed that he’d noticed this before, but either had found it unimportant or had forgotten about it. Now, however, that it had been pointed out by someone else—a neighbor, no less—it seemed all the more suspicious.

Just then, Donna Buford poked her head into the room. “Who wants banana bread?”

She stepped into the room holding a platter of banana bread. Calvin smiled. “That would be lovely, Donna.”

She quickly served him a slice of the bread and then regarded her son. “Dylan?” she asked.

“Not hungry,” the boy murmured.

Donna’s face morphed into a pout. “But you love banana bread!”

“I had a big breakfast, mom,” Dylan replied.

Donna hummed and placed the bread onto the coffee table. She moved to sit down next to her son but Frederick cleared his throat. “Uh, actually, Mrs. Buford, parents aren’t allowed to be in the same room as those being interrogated. State law.”

Donna scrunched up her eyebrows but complied. “Well... Okay.”

She then left the room. Calvin turned back to Dylan who had been looking down at his hands, the other man seemingly picking at his cuticles. “So, Mr. Buford, I understand that you and Morty’s grandfather, Mr. Sanchez, had a small interaction on Christmas Eve.”

“Uh... yeah, I guess,” Dylan said emotionlessly.

Calvin furrowed his brow. Sure, the boy was a little more than strange. But it didn’t make him a murderer. And besides, he was only eighteen. Frederick shuddered to think of an eighteen year old who had comitted murder, especially in such a brutal way.

Dylan then squinted at Frederick, breaking him out of his musing. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, not at all,” Frederick replied. “I’ve only requested the Smith family to inform me of all of their interactions with anyone in this area that was here the night it happened.”

Dylan let out a heavy exhale. “Okay.”

“Now, do you remember anything from that day?” Frederick asked.

“Not much, sir. I had the week off due to the holiday and had been inside on my computer, playing a few video games, and watching Tv. I’ve told you this before, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” Calvin ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just making sure that you were at home.”

Dylan leaned back in his seat, his hands in his pockets. 

“So what about your relationship with the Smiths? Did you know any of them well?”

Dylan shrugged. “I dunno. Morty’s sister—Summer?—is in my grade but she goes to a different school than me. Harry Herpson, I believe. But no, I never knew any of them very well. I only moved here when I was eleven and at that age, I had become something of a recluse,” the boy said, a small huff of amusement escaping him.

Calvin quirked up the corner of his lip and raised his eyebrows. “Okay, now, going back to your conversation with Mr. Sanchez that you had the other day—how did that begin?”

Dylan hummed and placed a hand to the back of his head. “Uh, let me think back... Well, I was sitting on the back of my truck, smoking a cigarette, when I saw that Mr. Sanchez was taking a walk around the neighborhood. He looked like he was sad, maybe a little frustrated, and so I decided to go up and talk to him. So, I went up and I said to him ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ and he kind of just, like, gave me a look. He looked mad so I didn’t say anything else and we kind of stood there for a little while.” Dylan shifted in his spot, his face getting more and more relaxed as he continued to describe what happened that day. “It was kind of awkward for a bit so then I went to leave. But he grabbed my arm before I could and... he glared at me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe and called me a bastard after a second. He let go of me then so I ran back inside my house and well... that’s sort of how it all went.”

“Hmm...” Calvin said to himself. Now that he was hearing the other side of the story, he’d have to call Rick about this. 

“I feel terrible about what happened to Morty, sir... I just wish that I could’ve been there to do something...” Dylan said remorsefully. He buried his face in his hands. “Morty was always so small… I’m sure whoever did this to him easily overpowered the poor guy. All I can think about now is why the _hell_ hadn’t I seen something, y’know?”

“Look, kid,” Frederick said, his words drawing Dylan’s face out of his hands. “You can’t peg yourself to all these ‘what if’s. They kill you... they really do. But the only thing you can do in these situations is to move on, accept what’s happened, and try your damn hardest to get justice. That way, both you and the dead can rest easy.”

Dylan let out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he smiled. “That’s all we can do.”

“T-that fucking psychotic _monster..._ ” Morty’s voice even trembled in heaven.

Calvin clapped Dylan on the shoulder and then finished off his remaining banana bread. He set the plate down on the coffee table in front of him and stood up. “Well, anyway, I’m sure I’ve intruded enough. I just wanted to reassess the neighborhood.”

“How’s the investigation doing, though?” Dylan asked standing up as well. “Have you found anything new?”

Frederick sighed. He didn’t like these types of questions—never had—but he guessed that it was only fair to give an answer, especially considering that it was coming from a concerned neighbor.

“Well, son… all truths are spilled eventually. I think that it’s only a matter of time—and patience—until this one is.” It was cryptic as all hell and served as absolutely nothing to answer the question but it worked almost every time the question sprung up.

“What about suspects? Do you have any of those?”

“...That’s confidential, Mr. Buford.”

“Oh. I understand,” the younger man said.

There was a pause before Calvin moved to the entryway.

“Well... have a good day kid. And tell your mother that her bread was great.”

Dylan grinned. “Thank you, sir. And I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

* * *

“What the _hell_ do you mean that Dylan’s fine?!” Rick yelled into his phone.

“I _mean_ , Rick, that the boy seems like a good kid!” The voice of Frederick Calvin said, coming in through the other line.

It was the next morning and Rick was in the garage, talking over the phone with Frederick Calvin. Morty watched the whole affair curiously, keeping his eyes on Rick’s enraged face.

“Look, Rick. I can admit that he’s a little weird, but he checks out. His alibi is in order, I really don’t have any reason not to trust him,” Calvin said, his tone gentle.

“Except _me_ , asshole!” Rick exclaimed.

“Well, about that,” Calvin said. “Rick, did you call Dylan a bastard?”

Rick huffed, leaning back in his seat. “Y-yes...”

“Why in the hell did you call him a bastard?!”

“Because he is one!” Rick was finally yelling. “He’s a creep! He’s—h-he’s a fucking creep! I know he knows something! C-c’mon, Calvin, y-you’ve gotta back me up on this!”

Frederick Calvin sighed. “Rick... I think it’d be best for you to put this to rest. In fact, I think you should stop being as involved in this case as you are.”

Rick blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “W... _What?"_

Rick couldn’t see it, but Calvin shook his head on the other line. “No, no, I’m sorry Rick. I should’ve realized that it would’ve been dangerous for you to be as involved as you have been. It was unprofessional of me. I’m sorry.”

“N-no!” Rick shouted. “I... what the fuck! I’m your best bet, you motherfucker!”

“Rick, you’re quite obviously distraught over your grandson’s death. That’s the exact reason we don’t let families work on cases.” Calvin said. “Honestly, as soon as you stepped into the crime scene we should have reprimanded you...”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m the only fucking reason you have a clue about the condition of my grandson!” Rick stood up from his chair and began pacing around the room.

“Rick,” Calvin said calmly, ignoring everything the other man had just said, “you love him. And I’m sorry it has to be this way, but—”

It was as if Yellowstone had finally erupted.

“I DON’T FUCKING LOVE HIM!” Rick shouted “SHUT UP! SHUT THE _FUCK_ UP!”

“I—” Calvin said, his shock quite evident. “Rick—”

“No! Y-y-you don’t get to fucking psychoanalyze me you sorry son of a bitch!” Rick continued to yell. “No one does you motherfucking piece of shit!”

“Rick, I think you need to calm down, you aren’t being yourself—”

“Suck a dick!” Rick said. In typical Rick fashion, those were his last words before he ended the call, throwing the phone across the room to hit the wall. His phone was practically invincible, so it didn’t break, but the action was soothing for the man.

Rick stood there, seething for a bit, before he grit out the word, “ _Asshole_!” and stormed out of the room.

Morty didn’t follow. The only thing that kept reverberating in his mind was “ _I don’t fucking love him..._ ” Sure, Rick said things that he didn’t mean when he was angry, but Morty could always detect when that was the case. This time, though, Morty wasn’t completely sure that the man _didn’t_ mean what he said.

Had their relationship meant nothing to Rick? Had he just been something for Rick to eventually fuck? Had he just been a virgin with only one purpose, that of which to be ridden of his virginity? 

He supposed that it didn’t matter. He was dead now, so what good was it to lament? To obsess over everything he didn’t know? He shouldn’t waste away time wondering what could’ve been. At the very least, Morty loved him. That would be enough.

* * *

A few hours later, around mid-day, Rick brought out his portal gun and entered the set of coordinates that led to a place that he’d never thought he’d go again.

Shooting the gun at the wall, Rick braced himself and walked through.

Immediately, upon first entering, the Citadel looked entirely different from how it had just the year prior. Red banners hung on every wall, guards wearing white and red uniforms on every street corner, empty streets with no signs of any other Ricks or Mortys anywhere. 

The only reason Rick was crazy enough to come back to the Citadel was that this specific area in the Citadel—where Rick was right then—was safe. 

This place in the Citadel was the only place where none of that applied.

The coordinates that Rick punched in led to a bar, just on the edge of the Citadel where there were much fewer law enforcers. The bar was owned by an Anti-Citadel Rick and Morty—Rick and Morty I-65B—both who worked as bartenders. They only served those who were Anti-Citadel or, at the very least, were against the newly elected President Morty. 

Rick had only been to this bar a few times but he knew that he was sure to find _something_ —some piece of evidence—that would get dirt on Dylan Buford.

Rick walked out of the portal and into the bar. His memory of the place was at once restored. Vibrant accent lights, low lighting, and the overwhelming smell of pot and booze.

As soon as Rick’s portal activated in the room, Morty I-65B looked up from where he was making a drink at the bar. Upon seeing that it was a regular Rick that walked out—not one wearing that white and red uniform that had become so infamous within the Citadel—his face relaxed. Despite the easy-going atmosphere of the bar, everyone had to be on high alert in case of an intrusion.

Rick was waved over by the Bartender Morty, and, with a sigh, Rick closed his portal and walked out of the designated portal area that the bar had.

“Well, well, well,” the Morty said when he walked up to the counter. The boy was grinning smarmily and Rick scoffed as he leaned against the counter. “If it isn’t C-137.” 

Morty I-65B had the uncanny ability to detect which dimension Ricks and Mortys were from. At least, that’s what he told everyone. In reality, everyone knew that I-65B Rick was overprotective enough to the point where he had replaced one of his Morty’s regular eyes with an eye that had cybernetic augmentations. It was extreme, but doing so was one of the only ways to stay safe on the Citadel in such trying times.

“S-shut up, I-65B,” Rick said, rolling his eyes.

The Morty grinned and served the Morticia sitting at the counter her (no doubt alcohol-free) Shirley Temple. “Hey, man, I-I’m just tryin’ to have some fun, y’ old bastard,” I-65B winked. He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “Anyways, what’s up? Y-you never come in here, C-137.”

“Actually, I’m looking f-for evidence,” Rick said.

The Morty raised an eyebrow and stood to his full height. He was taller than most Mortys, but, even then, he was still pretty small. “Evidence, huh? For what exactly?”

Rick sighed, bowing his head. “Ever heard of a guy named Dylan Buford?”

There was silence coming from I-65B. Curious, Rick lifted his head only to see that Morty was staring back at him with wide eyes. “W-what? What is it?” Rick asked.

“Damn...” I-65B said after a second. He looked over his shoulder and shouted at another Morty who was cleaning a table off. “Hey, 369-G! Take my place at the bar!” I-65B said nothing as he walked out from behind the counter and over to Rick’s side.

“What are you—”

“Just follow me, C-137,” the Morty said.

Rick huffed at the crypticness he was receiving but he kept silent about it. Mostly because I-65B’s Rick was even more of an ass than a usual Rick was to deal with and his Morty was always quick to tattletale when there was someone less than pleasant to deal with. That and C-137 wanted answers.

I-65B led him to a shady table in the corner that had five Ricks playing Blackjack at it. The table had a single overhead light at it, casting them all in eerie-looking shadows.

As Morty I-65B and Rick C-137 neared the table, the other Ricks looked up from their cards and over to the approaching Rick and Morty.

“Hi, assholes,” I-65B said, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to a stop. Rick stopped in his tracks as well, narrowing his eyes as he took in all of the Ricks. They all looked different from each other in some sort of way—one’s hair was worn in a slicked-back style; one had a scar going from his unibrow to his cheek; one wore piercings and gauges; one had green alien-like antenna; one looked just like any other regular Rick.

“Hey, kid,” Piercings Rick said, leaning back in his chair. “W-what’s with the Rick?”

“Guys, t-this is C-137,” I-65B said, stepping aside as if his small height was blocking the Ricks from being able to see Rick.

All of the Rick’s jaws dropped unfailingly. Rick huffed.

“B-b-but you’re...” Slicked-hair Rick said, trailing off in shock.

“The Rogue,” Antenna Rick finished for him, his tone an odd mix of awe and fear.

Rick groaned in dismay. He’d almost forgotten how insufferable it was to talk to other versions of himself.

I-65B ignored Rick’s ire. Morty cleared his throat and refocused the attention to him. “R-Rick and I wouldn’t have let C-137 into the bar in the first place if he’d had any m-malicious intent to any of us. He’s just like any ol’ Rick. Fuck off.” The Morty sighed and put himself back on track. “Now, I’m comin’ to you all because C-137 has a Dylan in his dimension. He’s lookin’ for evidence on him, too.”

If the Rick’s faces hadn’t gone white when Rick had been introduced as ‘the Rogue Rick’, they sure did now.

“Oh fuck,” Scar Rick said. His face looked sympathetic.

“I—what—?” Rick was about to go off on a tangent about how he really wasn’t appreciating the lack of answers he was getting right now but the other Regular Rick cut him off. 

“T-take a seat, C-137,” he said, gesturing to the one empty seat at the table. “We have got a lot to talk about.”

Rick stood there for a second before he moved to take a seat. I-65B Morty said goodbye then, going back to the bar. Rick barely paid him any attention as his gaze was affixed on all the other Ricks.

“S-so… how do you all know Dylan?” Rick queried in suspicion.

“Same as you, I guess,” Antenna Rick said, picking up his discarded card from off the table, though not looking at them quite yet, “he was a—URP—neighbor.”

“Tch, c-creepy motherfucker.” Scar Rick crinkled up his nose, following Antenna Rick’s lead and picking up his cards.

“H-he is?” Rick’s eyes widened. “S-so I’m not the only one who thinks he is?”

“Hell no,” Piercings Rick said. “Dylans aren’t all that common but one thing is unanimously agreed on—they’re little creeps.”

Regular Rick nodded in agreement. “For real. I th—URP—ought the kid was just going through an emo streak, s-since he looks like he’s right out of a fuckin’ Tim Burton movie.” Regular Rick shook his head. “Turns out he tried stabbing my Morty to fuckin’ shreds, the lil’ punk.”

Rick’s eyes widened. “Wait, w-what?” 

Piercings Rick looked over at Rick. “Yeah, Dylans are typically seen as Morty predators. If a Rick has one, they’re typically gonna wanna g-get rid of him. T-t-they’re like pests, y’know?”

“W-what happened to your Morty anyways?” Slicked-hair Rick asked curiously, cocking his head. “Stalking, assault, o-or even, dare I say, rape?”

There felt like there was something stuck in Rick’s throat. Something large and prominent. Whatever it was, it was preventing him from speaking. He opened his mouth to try and get something out but nothing could.

Slicked-hair Rick furrowed his unibrow. “Well, something happened, right? Didn’t—didn’t I-65B tell us you were looking for evidence?”

Rick swallowed hard and looked at Slicked-hair Rick. “H-he... He’s dead.”

Silence passed over the table. It stayed that way until Scar Rick looked down at his cards. “Any bets?”

The other Ricks ignored him. They kept staring at Rick with something resembling sympathy. All of the Ricks at the table were extremely emotionally constipated and none of them had any idea what to do when C-137 started crying.

“Shit,” Piercings Rick said to himself. He stood up from where he was sitting and moved over to Rick. “H-hey, uh... w-w-why don’t we go to the bathroom, yeah? I could use a smoke and I bet you could t-too.”

Piercings Rick moved Rick out of his chair and led him away to the bathroom. Rick obliged, following the other Rick into the bathroom.

The bathroom door swung open and the two Ricks entered. Piercings Rick immediately went over to the counter and moved to jump onto it, sitting on the marble-top. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, extracting a cigarette from the pack of Camels and lighting it up.

C-137, however, moved to rest in front of one of the stalls. He leaned heavily against the closed stall door and breathed in and out, trying to gather himself up. 

“J-Jesus...” Rick said to himself. His voice was still shaky but the tears had stopped for the most part. “I-I’m a real fuckin’ wreck, aren’t I?”

“Y-yeah,” Piercings Rick admitted, taking a drag from the cigarette. “B-but we all are.”

“I guess...”

Rick closed his eyes and took another deep breath. In all these years, Rick hadn’t shed a single tear. Suddenly, when something like this happens, it was like a dam that finally burst. Once he started he just couldn’t stop. It seemed as if he was crying or feeling some sort of despair all the time now, and the parts of the day where he wasn’t were just angry intervals before he would feel sad all over again.

Rick ran a rough hand over his face. Now that the other Rick was smoking, he was kind of craving a cigarette too. Maybe the nicotine would help take an edge off.

He sauntered over to the counter and jumped on it in a similar manner as how Piercings Rick had.

“C-could you hand me a cig?” Rick asked. Piercings shrugged and offered him the box as well as the lighter. Rick grabbed both and nodded. 

He grabbed a cigarette from the pack and flicked the lighter to life. He lit the cigarette and gave the lighter and pack back to Piercings Rick. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” Piercings said, stuffing the items back in his lab coat.

They sat there for a few minutes, both of them smoking. Rick had been right—the nicotine did wonders for his anxiety that had been building up for a while. 

Eventually, so much time had passed that he was just smoking a stub. He tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the sink near him and sighed, hanging his head. Piercings Rick glanced over at him and cocked his head.

“You good?”

Rick shook his head. “I honestly don’t fucking know anymore.”

“...I feel you.”

Rick sighed again and moved to completely lean against the mirror behind him.

Piercings kept his eyes on him. “S-so were you and your Morty... y’know... a thing?”

Rick shrugged. “Uh y-yeah, I guess...” He looked over at Piercings. “A-are you and your Morty...?”

Piercings waved his hand. “Nah. But a few of the guys out there are, so it’s cool.”

“Oh,” Rick said. He was feeling increasingly more dumb as their conversation went on for some reason. Maybe it was because he was sobering up. Yeah. That must be what it was. But Rick didn’t care enough to move for his flask.

“W-w-what happened to your dimension’s Dylan?” Rick asked.

“Huh?” The question seemed to catch Piercings off guard before he settled into a look of indifference. “W-well, y’know uh... It’s kind of amusing, really... Dylan was trying to s-sneak into the house to... for lack of a better word, _fuck_ my Morty when my Summer came back early from her s-shift at her job. It was raining a-and she hadn’t seen Dylan so she just… _wham_. Ran right into the fucker. While he was in the hospital, h-he confessed under pain killers that he’d been trying to break into the house and hurt Morty. Summer didn’t even have to face charges after that,” Piercings Rick laughed slightly.

Rick gave a half-hearted grin. While he didn’t find the story funny, he didn’t know much else to do with himself.

Suddenly, Piercings Rick’s unibrow shot up like he’d remembered something. “Oh, hey, t-that reminds me. Y-you said that you were looking for evidence, huh?”

Rick nodded slowly. “Uh... Yeah?” 

“Well, why don’t the other Ricks and I help you? With finding evidence, that is.”

“Wait,” Rick said, his eyes widening. “Y-you all would do that?”

“Why not? Least we could all do.”

Rick thought for a second; would having all these Ricks to help be beneficial? Sure, it meant having more hands on deck but what if they turned out to be a nuisance? To be a pain in the ass? He quickly shook all the thoughts away, however. No. He should do this. This wasn’t about him—this was about his grandson, his lover... His Morty.

Rick took a deep breath before nodding. “...Okay. Let’s do it.”


End file.
